#firefly light patterns

[thesomethingguy]

The Science Behind Bioluminescence: Why Nature Glows in the Dark

Imagine walking along a dark beach at night when the waves suddenly light up with an eerie blue glow, as if the sea itself has secrets to tell. That magical shimmer isn’t fantasy—it’s science. Bioluminescence is nature’s version of a glow stick, and it’s every bit as fascinating as it is beautiful. From glowing jellyfish to fireflies blinking like tiny lanterns in your garden, bioluminescent…

[soimafan2341]

Or by one species of firefly

romance is so fucking boring why don't you kill and eat eachother instead

[faebled-stories]

Behind The Wall

Kinkvember Day 8: Glory Hole

Le Sserafim Huh Yunjin

6.5k words

Yunjin sank into the deep, velvet embrace of her couch, the cushions softening her exhausted frame as she let out a long, weary sigh. The echoes of the day's cacophony—cheering fans, thumping music, and sharp camera clicks—still pulsed faintly in her ears.

The life of an idol was dazzling but relentless; every hour meticulously scheduled, every move choreographed to perfection. The glitter of stage lights, interviews under glaring lamps, and the constant churn of photo shoots were exhilarating but exacted a toll. It was as if her very soul teetered on a tightrope, balancing the shimmering allure of fame against the shadow of burnout.

Through the vast floor-to-ceiling window, the city’s neon lights painted strokes of pink, blue, and gold across her apartment walls. Seoul’s night buzzed with energy; cars zipped by, people chattered and laughed, their figures flitting like restless fireflies. The symphony of life outside mocked her solitude, reminding her of the world that saw her only as an untouchable idol, never as Yunjin, the young woman who craved the freedom to simply be.

A heavy sigh escaped her as she swept her gaze over the cluttered coffee table, its surface strewn with fan mail written in colorful inks, glossy pamphlets of upcoming events, and stacks of formal letters from the agency. Her slender fingers traced absent patterns over the scattered papers, seeking something familiar in the chaos. But then, her touch stopped on an envelope that was different. It was plain, with none of the bright markings or logos she’d expected—no sender's name, no return address, just an unassuming square of paper.

The whisper of the paper crinkling as she opened it seemed magnified in the stillness. The note inside was concise, starkly so, and as her eyes scanned the words, a shiver danced along her spine:

"Looking to escape the ordinary? We offer complete anonymity. No names, no faces—just pure freedom. For those seeking a way out, come explore a world where nothing else matters."

A URL was printed below in small, unembellished text, as though any flourish might disrupt the message’s secrecy. Yunjin flipped the paper over, searching for more—an explanation, a clue to its sender—but found nothing. The edges of the note bit into her palm as her mind wrestled with intrigue and apprehension.

Her heart thudded as she glanced around her penthouse, its luxury and perfection suddenly feeling like a gilded cage. The idea of complete anonymity was as tantalizing as it was foreign. A place where her name, face, and reputation held no sway, where the burden of fame could be shed like a second skin—was such a thing even possible?

The glow of her phone lit her face as she typed the URL. The screen flickered to life, revealing a minimalist site with no distractions, no images, just a few lines of cryptic text. It spoke of an exclusive venue, a secret haven where identities dissolved, and people interacted without pasts or future judgments. A chill coursed down her arms as she read it again, each word stoking the embers of a rebellious thought that crackled within her.

She pressed her lips together, the decision forming like storm clouds in her mind. Her usual caution warred with a desperate hunger for escape. For once, she wouldn’t run it by her manager or think about potential repercussions. She would be just Yunjin, unknown and unseen.

Shaking fingers rummaged through her closet, pushing past glamorous gowns and performance outfits until she found a pair of dark jeans and a plain black hoodie. She slipped them on, the soft fabric foreign in its ordinariness. Her reflection in the mirror was almost startling—gone were the shimmering eyeshadow, sculpted features, and immaculate hair. Instead, a girl with wide, determined eyes looked back. She pulled her hair into a loose ponytail and donned a baseball cap, tucking wayward strands beneath it. Oversized sunglasses completed the disguise, shadowing her face despite the evening hour.

A small crossbody bag held her essentials, including the mysterious envelope and her phone, which she silenced before sliding it in. The muffled tick of the clock punctuated her hesitation, but the thrum in her chest urged her forward. The night was cool when she stepped out, the city’s breath washing over her as if daring her to blend into the current of people and lights.

Flagging down a cab felt like a small act of rebellion, its ordinary nature grounding her as the car hummed to life and pulled away from the curb. The rhythmic roll of the tires lulled her into contemplation. Streetlights cast fleeting halos on her window, the cityscape warping and softening in the glass’s reflection. She watched as neon signs, bustling restaurants, and late-night strollers gave way to quieter streets lined with shuttered shops and shadowed alleyways.

When the cab stopped in front of an unremarkable building, her pulse quickened. It stood under a flickering street lamp, modest and nondescript, its façade promising nothing yet holding everything she yearned for.

Yunjin paid the driver and stepped onto the cracked pavement, the city's hum receding to a low murmur. A sudden breeze lifted the edge of her hood as she pulled it lower, shielding herself from the scant light. The air tasted electric, anticipation sharp on her tongue.

This was it—a chance to disappear, to step into the unknown. The final glance over her shoulder was reflexive, a look at the life she was about to abandon, if only for a fleeting moment. With a deep breath, Yunjin pushed open the heavy door and let the shadows swallow her whole, a small smile curving her lips as the echo of her world fell away.

At the front desk, a woman with a soft, welcoming smile looked up, her glasses perched delicately on the tip of her nose, glinting under the warm glow of the overhead light. She exuded an air of quiet confidence, her poised demeanor a result of years of greeting visitors who approached with curiosity, nerves, or both.

“Good evening,” she said, her voice calm, warm, and practiced, like the embrace of a familiar song. The subtle scent of jasmine lingered in the air, a comforting contrast to the thundering beat of Yunjin’s heart. Sensing her demeanor the lady continued “First time?”

Yunjin gulped, the lump in her throat making her voice feel small and fragile. “Yes,” she replied, her tone soft and almost wavering, as if any louder would betray the torrent of emotions coursing through her.

The woman’s eyes, sharp yet kind, softened with a knowing glimmer as she slid a clipboard toward Yunjin across the polished, dark wood of the counter. The faint slide of paper against wood felt louder than it was, reverberating in Yunjin’s heightened state. “No worries, it’s all straightforward here. Just sign this waiver, and let me explain the options.” The receptionist’s tone was even, her words crafted to soothe. The clipboard itself seemed ordinary but held a gravity Yunjin wasn’t prepared for—a silent gateway between the ordinary and the unknown.

Yunjin's eyes dropped to the clipboard, the neatly printed text blurring slightly as her thoughts raced. The room felt warm, her breath shallow as she fought to calm herself. The woman’s voice interrupted her reverie, a steady anchor to the moment. “You can choose to give pleasure or receive it—whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

Yunjin’s pulse quickened, the choice startling in its simplicity yet weighted with implications. The muffled hum of distant music reached her ears, blending with the low thrum of blood rushing through her veins. She hadn’t anticipated the tension, the sudden clarity required for this decision.

“Um…” The hesitation hung between them, a breath caught in time. Yunjin’s gaze flickered from the clipboard to the woman’s reassuring eyes, and before she could rethink it, the words fell from her lips. “I’ll… give first.”

A smile curved the receptionist’s lips, gentle and knowing. She collected the clipboard once Yunjin had signed her name, fingers brushing lightly over the polished wood. “Great,” she said with a finality that both steadied and excited Yunjin. “Once you’re ready, head to the back, and follow the instructions inside. Take your time.” The words resonated like a promise, rich with unspoken possibilities.

Yunjin's feet felt both light and weighted as she moved through the hallway, each step echoing softly against the wooden floorboards. The corridor was lined with antique sconces that cast warm, flickering light, their glow reminiscent of gas lamps from another era. The scent of aged wood and varnish wrapped around her, steeped in a history of whispered secrets and uncharted desires.

The booth she entered was compact, almost intimate, its wooden frame dark with age and rich with a subtle scent of cedar. Faint scratches marred the surface, stories untold but felt through the marks of time. Yunjin adjusted herself on the worn seat, the old wood creaking beneath her slight movements. The small space was a capsule of warmth and nervous energy, making the moment feel both surreal and thrilling.

A deep breath filled her lungs as she closed her eyes, trying to slow the pounding of her heart. The booth's walls seemed to close in protectively, muting the world outside and intensifying her awareness of herself. The anticipation coiled within her, electric and alive, as she opened herself up to whatever came next, ready to step across the invisible threshold and into the unknown.

Suddenly, a slight movement near her face broke her concentration. Her gaze shifted and there it was—a small, round hole in the partition between booths, a portal to the unknown. Through it, the tip of a penis slowly emerged, its presence both startling and enticing. The anonymity of the situation only added to the allure, as Yunjin found herself face to face with the mystery of a man she could neither see nor touch, save for this intimate connection.

The member that presented itself through the partition was of a decent size, neither intimidating nor meek. It commanded Yunjin's attention, a silent invitation to a dance of lust and longing. With a deep breath, she reminded herself to take her time, to explore and savor the experience. She was an artist, and this was her canvas.

As she leaned in, the warmth of her lips met the head of the cock with a gentle, yet commanding touch. Her technique was impeccable, a result of years of honing her craft. A low groan from the other side of the partition confirmed her skill, and a surge of empowerment washed over her. She was in control, a maestro conducting an orchestra of desire.

With each slide of her mouth, her tongue traced the sensitive underside of his member, eliciting a symphony of responses from the stranger. His breathing grew heavier, punctuating the air with anticipation. The twitching of his member within her mouth was a silent testament to her mastery, a sign that she was navigating the dance of desire with expert precision.

Yunjin's own moans began to mingle with the stranger's labored breaths, a chorus that filled the small, private space. She couldn't deny the pleasure she found in this unconventional tryst. There was a unique thrill in the anonymity, a liberation in the act of pleasuring someone whose face she would never know. It was a connection that transcended the physical, rooted in the raw and real exchange of passion.

The pace of her actions increased, her head bobbing with growing urgency, the wet sounds of her endeavors a testament to the fervor of the moment. She could sense the stranger's tension mounting, his breathing becoming shallow and ragged as he approached the precipice of release.

As the tension escalated, Yunjin sensed the subtle changes in the man's breathing—a mix of shallow, quick breaths escalating into a desperate, primal rhythm. The air grew thick with anticipation, and her heart pounded in sync with his. The cock in her mouth, already swollen with arousal, seemed to pulse with an electric charge, signaling the inevitable. His body tensed, muscles rigid as his climax built to an unstoppable crescendo. With just a whisper of warning, the stranger's control slipped away. A guttural, low growl vibrated through his chest, primal and raw, echoing in the confined space around them. Then, the release. It came like a warm, forceful flood, his hot, salty essence filling Yunjin's mouth with a sudden rush. She felt the throbbing intensify, each pulse delivering more of his essence, hot and thick against her tongue. Yunjin, caught in the wave of his ecstasy, swallowed eagerly, the flavors mixing in her mouth—salty, slightly bitter, yet uniquely intimate. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation, her own arousal amplifying as she savored the taste, the heat, the sheer intimacy of the act. As he reached his peak, she could feel the tension in his body slowly ebbing away, the throbbing now a slower, gentler rhythm. The cock in her mouth began to soften, no longer the rigid rod of before, but yielding, becoming more pliable. Yunjin held him there, her lips and tongue still caressing, prolonging the connection. The afterglow of his climax lingered on her taste buds as she gently released him with a soft wet pop, her lips tracing a soft path along the now relaxed shaft, leaving a trail of warmth. The moment, intense and fleeting, left them both in a haze of satisfaction, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath.

A murmured thanks floated through the hole, a small acknowledgment of the intense connection they had shared, however fleeting. Yunjin took a moment to catch her breath, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of the encounter.

Despite the fleeting nature of their interaction, Yunjin felt a profound bond with the faceless man on the other side of the wall. It was a bond forged by mutual pleasure and vulnerability, a memory that would linger long after the carnival lights had dimmed.

Just as she began to compose herself, another surprise awaited her. From a different opening in the partition, a second shaft appeared—this one significantly larger and more imposing. Yunjin's breath hitched in her throat as she eyed the newcomer with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. The first encounter had been a warm-up, but this? This was a challenge.

She hesitated, pondering if she could accommodate such a size, but the thrill of the challenge won out. With a cautious but determined glance, she edged closer to the second hole. Yunjin was ready to take the ride.

As she steeled herself, Yunjin's gaze was locked on the formidable appendage that stood before her. It was a symbol of virility and power, and she was determined to conquer it. With a deep breath, she leaned forward, her heart pounding like a drumline in her chest. The moment of contact was electric; her soft lips met the massive head of the cock, and a surge of warmth and intensity coursed through her. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation as she focused all her strength and concentration on the task ahead.

The journey had begun, and Yunjin was committed to seeing it through. She slid her lips down the lengthy shaft, each inch a testament to her determination. The cock throbbed and pulsed in her mouth, a living embodiment of the challenge she had accepted. It was a tight fit, pushing the limits of her oral cavity, and she could feel her throat constricting as she valiantly attempted to accommodate more of the imposing member.

Gagging and sputtering were inevitable, but Yunjin's will was made of sterner stuff. She refused to yield, pushing herself further, taking in more and more until she felt the cock hit the back of her throat. The sensation was overwhelming, but she welcomed it, pausing only to adjust before resuming her rhythmic motion. Her head bobbed back and forth, the cock sliding in and out of her mouth with practiced ease, a dance of passion and perseverance.

The thrill of the challenge was intoxicating. Yunjin's pulse raced with excitement as she deepthroats the massive cock, each thrust a declaration of her own capabilities. She was acutely aware of the wet patch growing on her panties, a visible sign of her arousal, as she moaned softly, the sound muffled by the object of her conquest. She was lost in the moment, her world narrowed to the feeling of being completely filled, completely consumed by the task at hand.

Her determination was not in vain. The man's body tensed, his breaths became labored gasps, and Yunjin knew she had driven him to the brink. The moment of truth arrived as his dick twitched and pulsed in her mouth, releasing a torrent of cum. She swallowed quickly, striving to keep up with the force of his ejaculation, but the sheer volume was overwhelming. Cum splashed against the back of her throat, overflowed, and covered her chin, dripping down her chest in a testament to her efforts.

Yunjin, a woman of remarkable poise and sensuality, found herself in a scenario that would have left many reeling. She had just concluded an intense session with two well-endowed partners, each man bringing his own brand of fervor and demanding her full attention and physicality. The encounter had been a marathon of pleasure and exertion, pushing Yunjin to the brink of her sexual prowess. Yet, as the second man withdrew, spent and satisfied, Yunjin was faced with an unanticipated third act.

Through the other hole stood another man, his desire evident and his anticipation palpable. His penis, while not as imposing as the ones that had preceded it, still presented a challenge. Yunjin, ever the consummate lover, was not one to back down from a challenge. She understood that satisfaction comes in many sizes and that her journey was far from over.

With a deep breath to center herself, Yunjin leaned in, her eyes locked onto his member as she took the whole cock easily into her mouth. The warmth of his flesh against her lips was a familiar sensation, yet it brought with it a new set of expectations. She was determined to lavish upon this man the same meticulous attention that she had given to the others, to bring him to the heights of pleasure despite the lingering sensation of fullness that still resonated within her from her previous encounters.

As she worked her magic, the man's response was immediate and visceral. He quickly reached his climax, and Yunjin braced herself for what was to come. To her astonishment, his orgasm was voluminous, exceeding even the generous offerings of the two men before him, combined. The warm, thick salty liquid hit the back of her throat with a force that caused her gag reflex to activate, the excess spilling out of her mouth and trickling down her chin.

The sensation was overwhelming, and Yunjin made a swift decision. She couldn’t take any more inside of her; she had reached her limit. Instead, she guided the man to finish all over her face. With her eyes closed and her head tilted back, she surrendered to the sensory overload. The cum splattered in waves across her face, marking her porcelain skin and staining her crimson hair with ropes of his essence. It dripped down her neck, leaving trails that soaked into her LE SSERAFIM top, a badge of honor from her latest conquest..

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on Yunjin. Here she was, a woman who had always prided herself on her control and composure, covered in the evidence of her sexual escapades. Yet, far from feeling debased, she felt empowered. The sensation was strange, yet not unpleasant, and in the midst of the chaos, she found a moment of quiet appreciation for the extremes to which her body and mind could be pushed.

As the man caught his breath and pulled away, Yunjin opened her eyes. A smile played across her lips, a silent acknowledgment of the journey she had just completed. She had not only endured but had triumphed, satisfying yet another partner with grace and determination. The experience had been intense, physically challenging, and emotionally exhausting, but it had also been exhilarating.

Yunjin stood, her body glistening with the remnants of her encounters, and made her way to the mirror. She gazed at her reflection, at the cum-covered visage that stared back at her, and she felt a surge of pride. She had pushed herself beyond her limits, and had proven to herself that she was capable of anything. In that moment, Yunjin embraced her strength, her resilience, and the sheer power of her sexuality.

She took a moment to catch her breath. She felt a weight lifted off her shoulders, and a sense of calm washed over her. But she was not ready to stop just yet. Quickly using the provided wipes, she cleaned herself slightly before she gathered up her remaining energy and boldly decided to continue.

Yunjin's heart danced to the staccato rhythm of her racing pulse as she navigated the dimly lit corridors of the building, her every step echoing the potent cocktail of excitement and trepidation coursing through her veins. She arrived at her destination, a secluded alcove whispered about in the hushed tones of the initiated, where the boundaries of the self are willingly blurred.

With a deep breath to steady her nerves, Yunjin began the ritual of undressing, each piece of clothing falling away to reveal the canvas of her unadorned skin. The cool air of the room kissed her bare flesh, sending a shiver down her spine, a tangible reminder of her exposed state. It was in this moment of nakedness, both literal and metaphorical, that Yunjin felt truly alive, her senses heightened to the symphony of whispers, rustling fabric, and the faint scent of desire that permeated the air.

Carefully, she positioned herself, ensuring comfort and security, but also the deliberate display of her most intimate self. The hole before her served as a portal to a world of anonymous connections, her bare pussy an offering to the unknown. As she closed her eyes, Yunjin surrendered to the vulnerability of her situation, a willing participant in the dance of the flesh.

The sounds from the adjacent room grew in intensity, a cacophony of deep moans and heavy breathing that spoke of the primal acts unfolding mere inches away. It was not long before the first of her anonymous suitors approached, his fingers tracing the contours of her exposed lower body with a reverence that belied the raw encounter to come.

He wastes no time in claiming what he sought, gripping Yunjin's hips with an urgency that communicated his need. She felt the heat of his body, the insistent press of his cock against her, seeking entry into the slick warmth of her tight cunt. As he entered her, Yunjin braced herself against the intrusion, the sensation of being filled overwhelming her senses.

The man's thrusts were fast and deep, driven by the intoxicating tightness that enveloped him. Yunjin's moans melded with the symphony of sounds that filled the room, her body responding to the relentless rhythm. Having spent the earlier part of the night pleasuring a succession of faceless men, now it was her turn to bask in the waves of pleasure that threatened to engulf her.

Yunjin's body trembled uncontrollably as wave after wave of intense pleasure coursed through her veins. She could feel every inch of the man behind the wall. His thrusts were relentless, almost brutal in their intensity, but she couldn't deny the way her body responded to his touch.

She could hear the man's grunts and groans growing louder with each thrust, his hips slamming into her with a primal urgency that made her heart race. It was clear that he was chasing his own high, focused solely on the intense sensations coursing through his body.

Yunjin tried to match his rhythm, meeting each thrust with one of her own, but she was quickly overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure coursing through her. She could feel her orgasm building deep within her, the tension coiling in her belly as she gasped for breath.

Yunjin, in that moment, was just another warm, wet body used solely for pleasure. An extension of the overwhelming stimulation that threatened to swallow her whole. The scent of sex was thick in the air of the crowded room, mixing with the heady aroma of cologne and the musk of aroused bodies.

All around them, others writhed and cried out in ecstasy. Moans and screams filled the air, punctuated by the wet slap of flesh on flesh. It was a debauched scene straight out of Yunjin's wildest fantasies. And yet, even as her body climbed higher and higher towards the peak, her mind felt strangely detached. It was as if she was watching the whole thing unfold from outside herself.

The man's thrusts grew more erratic, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own end. Yunjin could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her core, her nails digging into the supple leather beneath her as she teetered on the very edge of oblivion.

With a final, powerful thrust, Yunjin's body tensed as she felt her world shatter into a thousand pieces. Her orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave, a rush of intense pleasure coursing through her veins and leaving her breathless. She threw her head back and cried out, the sound echoing through the room as she reveled in the indescribable sensation.

The man, still buried deep inside of her, let out a low groan as he felt her climax. He could feel her muscles contracting around him, pulling him deeper as she rode out the waves of pleasure. With a few more thrusts, he followed suit, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her. The warmth of his seed filled her to the brim, a delicious sensation that only served to prolong her own orgasm.

"Ohhh yes!" Yunjin cried out, her voice filled with pure ecstasy. The intensity of the moment was etched into her memory, a moment of pure bliss that she would never forget. 

As the first man finished his climax, he pulled out, leaving Yunjin's hungry hole exposed and glistening with a mixture of sweat and the evidence of his pleasure. But there was no time for respite in this den of hedonism. No sooner had he withdrawn than another figure loomed, his member rigid and ready. Without hesitation, he plunged into her cum-slicked opening, claiming her for his own.

He started pumping with an urgency that matched the rhythm of her own racing heart. The wet sounds of their union resonated throughout the room, a testament to the slick, fervent fucking that was underway. Yunjin's body responded instinctively, her hips rocking back to meet his every thrust, her fingers clawing at the edges of the bench that supported her.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she panted, her voice a symphony of lust and longing. She was a vision of abandon, her body undulating with each powerful drive of his cock. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back in ecstasy, as she rode the wave of another impending climax.

The man showed no signs of slowing down, his own desires stoking the fire within Yunjin's core. She could feel the essence of her previous partner being churned inside her, the concoction adding to the intensity of the experience. "Mmmm it's so messy!" Yunjin gasped, the sensation of fluids squelching with each thrust only heightening her arousal.

He used the slickness to his advantage, fucking her with wild abandon, his hips a blur as he hammered in and out of her willing body. The room was filled with the sounds of their coupling—the slap of skin, the wet suction of her sex, and the growing crescendo of Yunjin's moans.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm gonna cum!" Yunjin wailed, her voice cracking with the intensity of her impending orgasm. Her pussy clenched around him, the sensitive walls of her sex gripping him tightly as she reached the precipice of pleasure. Her whole body shook, racked by the force of her climax, a climax that seemed to tear through her like a storm surge, leaving her spent and trembling in its wake.

As her orgasm subsided, the man continued to thrust, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure from Yunjin's satiated form. Finally, with a guttural growl, he too found his release, adding to the cum-slicked mess that Yunjin had become.

Exhausted but thoroughly sated, Yunjin collapsed onto the bench, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. She was a writhing, moaning mess, her body marked by the intensity of her encounters. Yet, even as she lay there, the knowledge that this was but a moment in her endless pursuit of pleasure brought a knowing smile to her lips.

In the dimly lit confines of an intimate chamber, Yunjin found herself amidst a symphony of desire, a realm where pleasure was the only currency. After a series of passionate trysts, she braced herself for the final act of her evening, a performance that promised to be as memorable as it was intense.

As her body, still quivering from the reverberations of her last climax, began to settle, Yunjin sensed the approach of another. She was acutely aware that this would be her final partner for the night, and there was something decidedly different about him. The anticipation of his touch rekindled the warmth and pulsating sensitivity of her pussy, remnants of her recent orgasmic journey.

The man's presence was commanding yet tender as he teased her entrance, his warmth radiating against her sensitive flesh. She recognized him by his formidable size—the same man she had pleasured orally earlier. His endowment, both exciting and intimidating, had left a lasting impression, and the recognition only stoked the fires of her arousal.

As he began to enter her, Yunjin braced herself for the sensation of being filled beyond what she had ever known. His size was not just impressive; it bordered on the edge of her comfort zone, yet she found herself craving more. With each deliberate inch that slid inside, her body stretched to accommodate his girth, yielding to his impressive member with a mix of trepidation and eagerness.

The intensity of fullness was almost too much to bear, but it was swiftly replaced by waves of pleasure that accompanied each of his thrusts. Her body was being pushed to its limits, but in the most exhilarating way imaginable. She could feel every ridge, every vein of his shaft, creating a friction that sent shivers of delight coursing through her.

Instinct took over, and Yunjin began to match his rhythm, eager to feel him reach the deepest parts of her. The man responded in kind, increasing the force of his thrusts, making her gasp with each powerful drive. The room echoed with the raw, primal sound of their bodies uniting, a testament to the pleasure they were creating together.

Yunjin's heart raced, each beat a drumbeat echoing in her ears as she scaled the heights of her pleasure. Her legs trembled with the exertion, her muscles coiling tighter with each passing second. The air around them seemed to crackle with electricity, a palpable tension that begged for release.

"I'm so close," she gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper, laced with the raw edge of desperation.

He responded with a powerful surge, his body moving with an intensity that matched her own fervor. Their rhythm was frenzied, a dance of two souls seeking unity in the most primal way.

"Please," she begged, her pride forgotten in the face of the overwhelming need that consumed her.

His answer was a focused, deliberate motion, a targeted strike against her inner walls that made stars explode behind her closed eyelids. Yunjin's world shattered as she reached the pinnacle of her climax. Her voice broke the stillness, a cry of pure, unadulterated bliss that filled the room.

"FUCK… you’re so big!" she exclaimed, her body arching into his, every nerve ending alight with pleasure.

Her inner muscles pulsed around him, a rhythmic clenching that milked his own release. He threw his head back, a look of pure ecstasy on his face as he let out a deep, resonant groan. Yunjin felt the heat of his climax as he spilled into her, the sensation drawing out her own pleasure until she was utterly spent.

For a moment, they existed in a perfect state of satiation, their bodies still intimately connected. Yunjin's breaths slowly evened out, her heartbeat gradually returning to normal. She lay there, boneless and content, a soft smile playing on her lips as the aftershocks of their union rippled through her.

As the intensity of the moment subsided, Yunjin savored the feeling of completeness. The warmth of his release spread through her, a sensation that was both comforting and deeply satisfying. Her body, now spent and limp, was a testament to the pleasure he had wrought.

In the afterglow of their erotic encounter, she lay back on the leather that clung to her skin, her body a canvas of pleasure and fatigue. Her breaths came in slow, deep waves, each one a testament to the intensity of the experience they had just shared. She was in a state of blissful exhaustion, every muscle in her body seemingly liquefied in the wake of her climax.

The mystery stud, still poised behind the wall, looked at her quivering folds, his gaze held a mixture of pride and satisfaction. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye he leaned in for one final, electrifying farewell.

His hand came down on her sex with a sure, resounding slap that echoed through the room, its sharpness jolting her senses. The stinging sensation arched her back, drawing a surprised moan from her lips as the sound lingered—a provocative reminder of their raw, unrestrained passion.

Before she could fully process the shock, his mouth descended with a searing kiss to her throbbing clit, warm and intent. The heat enveloped her, sending a fresh wave of pleasure rippling through her. His tongue moved deftly, coaxing her sensitive flesh to life with skilled flicks and gentle pulls, each movement reigniting her body’s desire.

A gasp escaped her as she shivered, goosebumps rising over her skin. Still sensitive from her previous release, she felt her body surge with renewed intensity. Her every nerve responded to him, the initial sting of his touch melting into the tender warmth of his kiss, the sensations mingling in a dizzying contrast that left her breathless. She was caught in the duality of it—the lingering sting meeting the sweetness of his lips—a perfect balance between the need to retreat from the intensity and the desire to lose herself in it entirely.

With a final, lingering kiss, he pulled back, leaving her body trembling and her chest rising with deep, satiated breaths. Covered in a light sheen of sweat, she had long since lost count of her climaxes, each one more powerful than the last. As she lay there, immersed in the warmth of their connection, she knew that this night would remain etched in her memory—a moment where passion, intensity, and an unspoken bond came together in something that transcended the physical.

She rose slowly from the plush cushions her legs trembling slightly from the exertions of the evening. Standing in the dimly lit room that had been her sanctuary, she caught her reflection in the nearby mirror. Her gaze drifted over her own form—a canvas marked by the unmistakable signs of release. Her skin was damp, glistening with the mingled residue of sweat and pleasure, each trace a testament to the intensity of the night.

She felt wonderfully full, her body carrying the subtle reminders of her encounters, tokens of the night that would stay with her as she stepped back into the world.

Yunjin moved to the bathroom, her steps careful, almost reverent. Warm water streamed over her, washing away the physical remnants of her indulgence, swirling down the drain in a quiet cleanse. Yet even as the evidence vanished, she knew that the essence of the night would remain—a secret, a sense of renewal that she would carry back into her public persona.

Dressed once again in her street clothes—a chic outfit that belied the wildness of her evening—Yunjin gathered her belongings: a sleek purse, comfy sneakers, and a renewed sense of self. She paused at the mirror, captivated by her own reflection. The woman staring back was radiant, her eyes alight with a new fire, a private victory that fame alone could never quite evoke. It was a glow that belonged to her alone.

At the front desk, Yunjin was met with the same quiet discretion as when she’d first arrived. The hostess, ever the silent guardian of this hidden world, handed her a sleek business card—a subtle invitation to return. Yunjin responded with a slight smile, a silent promise to herself that she would indeed revisit this sanctuary of indulgence.

Just as she turned to leave, a familiar voice rang out behind her.

“Hi, Ms. Jeon. Welcome back!”

Yunjin froze, her heart skipping as she spun around to see none other than her friend, Jeon Somi, standing just a few feet away. Somi’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, and she cocked her head, taking in Yunjin’s slightly disheveled appearance. Blood rushed to Yunjin’s cheeks, embarrassment rising fast—of all people, she hadn’t expected to see Somi here.

“S-Somi?” she stammered, caught off guard. “What… what are you doing here?”

Somi chuckled, enjoying Yunjin’s flustered reaction. She took a step closer, her gaze warm but curious. “I didn’t know you knew about this place.”

Yunjin shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. “Yeah, well…” She trailed off, unable to find the words, but Somi simply grinned and leaned in slightly, her expression softening.

Without a word, Somi’s eyes glinted with mischief as she inhaled, catching the faint scent lingering on Yunjin’s clothes—a subtle hint of musk and release. She pulled back, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“I’m here for the same reason as you, I presume?” Somi teased, raising an eyebrow.

Yunjin’s face grew hotter, mortified that Somi could sense exactly what she’d been up to. She bit her lip, laughing nervously. “I… guess so,” she mumbled, managing a sheepish grin. “Didn’t think I’d… run into anyone I know here.”

Somi chuckled warmly, patting Yunjin’s shoulder with a playful smile. “Hey, we all need a place like this sometimes, right? No judgment.” She glanced back toward the hallways, her voice softening. “Anyway, I had a long day. I’ll see you around.”

Before Yunjin could respond, Somi turned and headed toward the dimly lit corridors, her footsteps fading into the quiet shadows of the hidden world they both shared. Yunjin watched her friend disappear, feeling a strange mix of relief, embarrassment, and an unexpected sense of camaraderie.

Left standing by the entrance, Yunjin took a steadying breath, her heartbeat gradually slowing. Tomorrow, she would return to her carefully crafted public life. But tonight, she carried the thrill of her private indulgence—and the quiet comfort of knowing she wasn’t alone in seeking a place to shed her public self, if only for a moment.

[writeriguess]

Hi dear! Can I request a Barbarian!Katsuki x Dancer!Reader. Katsuki is from a fierce, barbarian tribe and Reader is from a smaller tribe, better known for their exquisite dancing rituals and healing techniques. He stumbles upon her by chance while she practices her mating dance in the woods and he decides it's fate. They get to know each other and fall in love. His tribe is a bit surprised that he chose a small and un-warrior like bride, but they go along with it and they have a grand wedding. Thank you!

The Savage’s Dance

The rustling of leaves whispered through the dense, moonlit forest. Fireflies flickered between the towering trees, their golden glow barely illuminating the path Katsuki Bakugou had taken. He had wandered far from his tribe’s encampment, his senses heightened as he scouted for threats—or perhaps, for something more. The battle-hardened warrior had never been one for aimless walks, but tonight, instinct had pulled him into the woods.

Then, he heard it.

A soft, rhythmic pounding against the earth. The sound of bare feet moving in a mesmerizing, deliberate pattern. It was accompanied by the delicate jingle of beads and the faintest rustling of fabric against skin. Katsuki narrowed his crimson eyes and stepped closer, his movements as silent as a stalking predator.

There, in the heart of a moonlit clearing, a woman danced.

Her body twisted and arched, her arms lifting toward the sky before sweeping down in a graceful arc. The dim light of the fireflies caught the smooth curves of her form, highlighting the sheen of sweat that clung to her glowing skin. Her hips rolled in hypnotic waves, and the bells at her ankles chimed in time with her movements. Katsuki’s breath hitched.

She was beautiful.

But this was no ordinary dance. Even someone as unversed in such things as he could tell—it was a ritual, something sacred. A mating dance.

His fingers clenched around the hilt of his blade as heat surged through his veins. His people had their own ways of claiming mates, but this? This was something entirely different. Something… enchanting.

The dancer twirled, her long hair fanning out before she suddenly froze. Her dark eyes locked onto his, widening in surprise. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, her exposed skin glowing in the dim light.

“You…” she breathed, taking an uncertain step back.

Katsuki smirked, stepping into the clearing. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She studied him, her gaze flickering over the sheer size of him—the powerful muscles, the numerous scars, the heavy furs draped over his shoulders. He looked every bit the warrior he was, the kind of man who had seen more battles than peaceful moments.

“You’re from the Skullcrushers,” she finally murmured, her voice laced with wariness.

His smirk widened. “Damn right.”

The Skullcrushers were a fearsome tribe, known for their strength in battle, their untamed warriors, and their brutal ways. But her people—the Moonveil tribe—were different. They didn’t war. They didn’t conquer. They healed. They danced.

And yet, here she was, standing before a barbarian, caught mid-dance.

Katsuki tilted his head. “What was that?”

She hesitated before answering. “A ritual. A mating dance.”

A slow, pleased chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Hah. So I was right.”

The heat in her cheeks deepened. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

He crossed his arms, clearly amused. “Too late for that, sweetheart.”

She gaped at him. “You—”

“—Looks like I showed up at just the right time,” he interrupted, his gaze darkening. “Maybe it’s fate.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs. This man—this dangerous, untamed force of nature—was looking at her as if she belonged to him. As if the dance had been meant for him all along.

And, gods help her, she wasn’t sure she wanted to argue.

The next few weeks were unexpected.

Katsuki kept coming back.

Every night, he found her. Sometimes, she was dancing. Other times, she was gathering herbs or tending to the wounded. And each time, he would sit nearby, watching her with a gaze so intense it made her skin burn.

She tried to ignore him at first. Tried to pretend that the massive warrior wasn’t standing at the edge of her world, waiting for her to acknowledge him. But it was impossible. His presence was too much.

One night, she finally snapped. “Why are you here?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I want you.”

She nearly dropped the bowl of healing salve in her hands. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, stepping closer. “That dance—your dance—I’m claimin’ it.”

She scoffed, trying to push past him. “That’s not how this works.”

Katsuki grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly. “Then tell me how it works.”

Her breath caught. His grip was warm, solid, but not forceful. Not cruel. His crimson eyes burned into hers, full of want.

“I’m not a warrior,” she whispered.

“Don’t care.”

“I’m not strong.”

His lips twitched. “Bullshit. You’ve got a different kind of strength.”

Her chest tightened. “Your people—”

“They’ll deal with it,” he cut in. “They’ll respect it.”

She hesitated. “And if they don’t?”

Katsuki smirked, his hand tightening around hers. “Then I’ll make ‘em.”

The Skullcrushers were surprised.

Katsuki had never spoken of taking a mate before, let alone one from a peaceful tribe. They expected him to choose a warrior—a battle-hardened woman with bloodstained hands. But instead, he brought home a dancer.

They whispered. They stared.

But none of them dared question him.

Not when he stood beside her, his expression daring anyone to speak against it.

Not when she looked at him with something softer than any of them had ever seen in their ruthless leader.

And when the wedding came—a grand celebration with both their tribes joining together, their traditions merging in a way no one had ever expected—the doubts faded.

Because when she danced for him that night, under the watchful eyes of both their people, there was no question.

She had been meant for him all along.

[hatethysinner]

I had a cute idea for a fic! It would be really cute if the main character would be taking a stroll around at night and come across Remmick as he’s busking with his banjo and she gets him to sing an old Irish folk song 👀

ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

ᴡᴄ: 2.8k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this song. please see maybe happy ending and all the other musicals on broadway this season if you can, truly an unmatched year! have y'all clocked me as an obnoxious theater kid yet 😭? dare i say it's the reason i have a speck of writing talent. anyways, i adored this idea because serenades have my heart and it'd be my first time writing one (it was so hard omg), so here she is! not too long relative to my other works because it really didn't need to be, but i hope y'all enjoy it all the same. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: nauseatingly sweet pathetic remmick fluff, serenading, excessive mention and meaning placed on fireflies

The fireflies were out again.

They drifted low across the tall grass like they had nowhere else to be, blinking in slow, rhythmless patterns. Like stars that had come down to earth, curious and aimless. The night held them close and cared for, letting them hang in the humid air with nothing but time on their wings.

You’d seen them before, of course. All your life. But some nights, like tonight, they moved differently. Slower. Softer. Like they knew they were being watched. Like they were dancing just for you.

The Delta always felt quieter at night.

It was a quiet no one really trusted. Folks whispered about it, said the dark down here wasn’t like the dark in other places. Said the trees listened. Said the water could keep a secret. You weren’t sure if you believed all that, but you knew one thing for certain: the stillness didn’t scare you.

Not the way it should’ve.

You’d made a habit of it, these late walks. When the air got too thick with thoughts, or the day clung too heavy to your skin, you’d slip outside and let your feet wander. Down past the back fields, across the brush-lined path, until the water showed its silver face and the frogs started to hum. Sometimes you’d bring a jar and catch a few fireflies, just to watch them flicker in your palm. Sometimes you’d sit and count how long you could go without hearing a single manmade sound.

It calmed you. Cleared your head. Gave you something to hold onto when the world felt too loud.

They told you not to.

Warned you, gently but often, that a girl out here at night wasn’t safe. That anything could happen. That there were things in the trees older than time and twice as hungry.

But the quiet had never hurt you.

And the moon, hanging full and watchful above the cypress branches, had never turned its face.

So you kept walking.

Your boots crunched gently in the grass, damp from where the dew was already beginning to gather. You brushed aside a low-hanging branch and stepped over the uneven bend in the path, the one you always forgot was there until it nearly caught your ankle. The creek whispered up ahead, a soft, steady hush, like someone trying to soothe a restless child.

And then,

A sound you didn’t expect.

Music.

You stopped.

Not bugs. Not frogs. Not the wind through the reeds.

Something else. Faint and careful. The pluck of strings, soft but clear. A banjo, you realized, but played low and slow, like whoever held it was afraid of being heard. It had no clear tune yet. Just gentle wandering notes, testing the air.

You tilted your head.

The fireflies blinked around you, catching in your eyelashes and drifting past your cheeks. One landed on the fabric of your shoulder, pulsing like a heartbeat.

You took a step toward the sound.

Then another.

The grass parted beneath your feet, damp and forgiving. The trees thinned out just enough to let the moon through in ribbons. You kept your breath even, your pace light. Didn’t want to scare off whatever strange magic had found its way here tonight.

And still, the music played. Threading through the dark like it belonged.

Like it’d been there all along.

And then you saw him.

Closer than you expected.

Much closer.

You’d followed the sound as if it were drifting from far across the creek, notes carrying on the wind like feathers. But when you stepped past the last veil of tall grass and turned just slightly toward the right, there he was.

Not even ten feet ahead.

Seated with his back to you on a split log bench, angled just enough for the moon to catch on the curve of his shoulder. The banjo lay loose in his lap, not cradled so much as resting there like it belonged. His fingers moved slow across the strings, too gentle to make real music now. Just small sounds. Ghost notes.

He was lean. Pale. His shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Collar loose and open, the dip of his neck catching the moonlight in a sharp, wet gleam. Sweat, maybe. Or something older.

Your breath hitched.

You hadn’t meant to spy on anyone. Didn’t want to. But when you realized how close you were, when you caught the slope of his shoulders and saw the way he rocked just slightly with each flick of the strings, something in your chest went tight.

There was no business for a man, any man, but especially one like him to be out so late. It didn’t sit right. There was no law in the woods, and even if there was, it wasn’t made for you.

You shifted your weight back slowly, trying to step away before he saw you. No sound, no sudden movement. Just a soft, silent retreat.

And then, snap.

A branch underfoot.

Loud enough to crack the night in half.

The man turned so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

You froze.

His head whipped toward you like he’d been yanked by a thread, and suddenly you were caught in the full force of his gaze.

He wasn’t just pale.

His skin carried a strange, ageless warmth. Undertones like honey diluted with cream. Touched by moonlight but not drained by it. Like the sun hadn’t reached him in a long while, but hadn’t quite forgotten him either.

Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. A mouth that didn’t always know what to do with itself when it settled closed. Soft one moment, tense the next.

And his eyes. Lord.

Blue. Not light, not sky. Deeper than that. Like river water just before it turns black. Old. Tired.

Too large.

Too deep.

Too lonely.

With that faint, impossible pulse of red flickering behind the color, beating slow as a second heart. Like the fireflies floating between you.

And his teeth,

You wouldn’t have noticed, maybe, if the moon hadn’t hit just right. But it did. And there, under the gentle curve of his lips, two fangs caught the light. Not long. Not alien. Just... unmistakable.

He stood.

Not quickly. Not with menace.

But slow. Measured. Careful.

Hands half-raised like he meant to calm. To motion that he existed in peace.

You caught the glint of something at his throat. A simple gold chain, sitting warm against his chest, right in the hollow where his shirt gaped open.

Neither of you spoke.

Not at first.

The music was gone now. The banjo left where it sat on the log, strings still reverberating faintly. The wind had gone still. Even the cicadas hushed.

Just your breathing. Just his.

Just fireflies blinking all around you, slow and golden, their pulses barely out of sync with the red behind his eyes.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Ain’t know anyone else walked this stretch,” he said, voice breathy and rough, like it had been a while since he used it. Southern, but not quite. Something twisted at the end of each word. Something careful that he was trying and failing to mask. “Apologies if I startled ya, miss.”

His gaze didn’t shift.

Didn’t dart away.

But he looked almost… nervous. Like you’d caught him with something private. Something delicate.

You should’ve turned.

Should’ve run.

But you didn’t.

You looked back at him, heart still thudding, breath still short, and said:

“You didn’t startle me.”

A pause.

“You play real nice.”

His mouth parted.

Just slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Thank ya kindly. That's very sweet of ya.”

He cleared his throat, glancing away from you for just a moment. Tried to stand a little straighter too, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that they weren’t holding the banjo. Or being watched by another human being.

“I- uh- I'm Remmick,” he said softly. “I like the quiet.”

His voice sounded careful. Like every word had to be weighed before it left his mouth. You caught the way his fingers twitched, half-reaching for the banjo again like it might steady him.

You nodded, finding your own voice beneath the pulse in your throat. “Me too.”

You told him your name.

He repeated it, soft, almost reverent, like he was tasting it. Like he wanted to make sure he got it right, to hear how it sounded in his own mouth.

He seemed to breathe easier at that. But then his eyes darted back toward the creek, then down at the ground, like maybe he’d overstayed already. His voice lowered, small and unsure.

“If ya’d rather be alone, I can go. Wasn’t meanin’ to trouble anyone.”

The words were earnest, almost clumsy. Like he meant them, but didn’t want to mean them. Like leaving was the last thing he wanted.

You glanced down at the fireflies drifting lazy circles around your boots, blinking like they were eavesdropping on the conversation. The moon made the water shine with silver streaks behind him. His banjo sat quiet at his side, one thin string still vibrating softly from where his hand had left it.

You didn’t know why the words came so easily, but they did.

“You don’t have to leave.”

His head lifted a little too fast, as if he hadn't expected that answer.

“Y’sure?” he asked, voice catching just slightly.

You smiled, small. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

The muscles at the corner of his jaw relaxed. He looked down, then back at you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tentative. Not quite a smile. Something gentler.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The fireflies blinked between you, soft and patient.

Then his hand slid over the banjo again, almost hesitant. “Don’t usually have much of an audience.”

You tipped your head, voice light. “That’s a shame. You sound like someone with stories to tell.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, the sound almost surprised. Ran a hand through his hair, tugging gently at the strands near the back of his neck.

“I got one or two,” he murmured. “Old ones.”

The quiet stretched again. Comfortable this time. The kind of quiet that felt like the Delta itself breathing around you.

Softly, you asked, “You know any songs with words?”

He hesitated. You saw it ripple across his face. The nervous flicker behind his eyes, the way his fingers hovered just above the strings.

After a moment: “...One or two.”

You didn’t push. Just stood there, letting the space between you settle.

Another firefly landed on the edge of the banjo’s frame, its glow reflecting faintly in his dark blue eyes. He watched it for a moment like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, finally, his voice broke the stillness again. Faint. Shy.

“I can play you one… if you’d like.”

You nodded, breath light. “I’d like that.”

His eyes met yours again. Misty, uncertain, but grateful. You could've sworn a ghost of a smile had appeared on his lips, before it quickly flew away.

His fingers hovered over the strings for a moment longer as he sat back down, like he had to coax himself forward.

And then, soft and low, he began.

“Oh, the summer time has come…”

The words slipped out like a secret. Barely above a whisper. Unsteady at first. You saw the nerves tighten his throat as he sang, as if even speaking the melody was some kind of quiet confession.

The fireflies blinked in rhythm, their lights pulsing soft as the notes floated into the air. You held your breath without meaning to. Something about his voice, so painfully gentle and kind, wrapped around you like warm cloth.

“And the trees are sweetly bloomin’…”

His gaze kept falling to you between the lines, unsure whether to meet your eyes or drop his own. And each time his eyes caught yours, he seemed to find a bit more footing. Like your presence steadied him, grounded him.

“The wild mountain thyme Grows around the bloomin’ heather…”

You wondered, suddenly, how long it had been since he sang for anyone. Or if he ever had at all. The intimacy of it left your chest tight. Not romantic, not quite. But full. Like standing in a room too small for all the quiet things neither of you could say.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The chorus came softer, steadier. His fingers strummed with more confidence now, like the melody was finally guiding him instead of the other way around.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

You watched his lips form each word, how his jaw tensed just slightly with the shape of every vowel. The moonlight caught faint on his chain. The gold glimmered like a second pulse beneath his throat.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

The breeze stirred between you, lifting the humid air off your skin. And still, he played. Like this space, this moment, belonged to both of you and no one else.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

His voice dipped even lower as the next verse began. His eyes didn’t stray this time. They stayed locked on yours, as though the rest of the world had slipped away.

“I will build my love a bower By yon cool crystal fountain…”

The words stirred something in your ribs. Quiet, curious. A fragile ache you didn’t dare name. He sang them like a promise not meant for you, but falling in your lap anyway.

“And round it I will pile All the wild flowers o’ the mountain…”

The fireflies blinked again, drifting closer between you both, like they too wanted to listen.

You didn’t dare look away.

Not when his voice, his fingers, his eyes had all softened into something so painfully vulnerable it made your breath catch.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

The melody carried through the night, through the hush of the trees and the slow lap of the water. Even the frogs seemed to quiet, as though giving him room to finish.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

His hands slowed on the strings as the final chorus slipped from his mouth.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The last note lingered, floating light as a feather before dissolving into the warm night.

Neither of you moved.

The space between you was still there. The gap. But it no longer felt like distance.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came. Nothing fit.

So you just smiled, small and warm.

His breath hitched like that smile was worth more than any words you could have given.

And around you, the fireflies kept on blinking.

The silence stretched for a long moment after his final note. The soft night held it gently, like neither of you dared break it too soon.

Then, without a word, you stepped forward.

The grass whispered beneath your feet. The fireflies parted for you like little floating lanterns, blinking gold as you crossed the space between you.

Remmick didn’t move. Only watched. Quiet, careful. As if the smallest shift might startle you back.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the log beside him. Not close enough to touch, but closer. Much closer than before.

The distance between you narrowed to a small breath of air, shared under the wide Mississippi moon. His eyes flickered toward you once. And then back to the strings. Like even that one glance was almost too much.

He swallowed softly, throat working. You caught it out of the corner of your eye.

His voice, when it came again, was even gentler than before.

Another song.

No introduction. No hesitation. Just music.

And you listened.

Song after song, old ones you half-knew, others that sounded older than the land itself. His voice was steadier now. Richer, somehow. The nerves had melted away. He wasn’t singing to fill the air anymore. He was singing to you. Or maybe with you.

And when your lips finally, softly, quietly joined his on a chorus, neither of you spoke of it.

Your voices braided together like threads of silk.

For a while, you simply sang. As if the night had always been meant for this, for the two of you trading melodies under the low hum of cicadas and the blinking dance of the fireflies.

Hours passed unnoticed.

At some point, the moon shifted higher. The breeze cooled. But neither of you made any move to leave.

Remmick’s eyes, every time they lifted to meet yours, were full of something so profound, so reverent, it made your stomach tighten. Not desire. Not hunger. But something deeper. Something that looked like worship.

He never reached for you.

Never brushed your hand.

But you felt him there, anchoring himself to you with nothing but the weight of his gaze, the softness of his song.

Eventually, as the stars began to pull pale against the hint of coming dawn, his fingers stilled on the strings.

Neither of you said a word.

Instead, you both simply sat there as the fireflies blinked their slow farewell.

And for the first time that night, Remmick spoke again.

His voice was barely a whisper, but full of something that made your chest ache.

“Thank ya for stayin’.”

You smiled.

And in that quiet, you both simply stayed.

Together.

[lilybug-02]

Doomed by the Narrative.

Bug Fact: Each species of Firefly have their own pattern of light flashing.

First || Prev // Next

Masterpost

[alderaphid]

Porch Light

Wally Darling/Reader, Wally Darling & Reader

Contents: Gen, fluff, comfort, very mild Canon-adjacent spooks, gender-neutral reader, can be interpreted as romantic or platonic relationship, reader is a neighbour, bolded parts of Wally's dialogue are to convey his slow speech and stress on certain words and syllables

Word count: 3,272

Notes: Part of the @fluffbruary 2025 event! Check it out! This is from the day one prompts "Dark" and "Wander". I've written a handful of these already, and as much as I'd like to port them over to Tumblr I feel it would take too long ^^;; -- but feel free to explore my other oneshots for this event over on AO3!!

----------

You hadn't meant to be out so late.

Frank had invited you over to their house that evening to watch the fireflies gather in their backyard. He had been cultivating the perfect environment there for the little lightening bugs, sprinkling a special mix of wildflower seeds he had ordered from a gardening catalogue and letting the grass grow long. Julie had been there when you arrived in the late afternoon, bouncing a ball against the siding of Frank's house. The three of you chatted as the sun slowly crawled to the horizon, talking about what you had done during the day.

Frank turned out their porch light when the sky began to turn yellow, explaining that the fireflies disliked the artificial light. You leaned your elbows on the railing, listening to Frank as he talked about fireflies until Julie had shrieked out, pointing,

"Look!!"

There was a faint light in the grass, a slow blinking yellow light. Then, another across the way. Then another. Then another.

You could not believe your eyes-- you had seen fireflies once or twice before, but not in such a number. There had to be ten million of them flitting around, twinkling at you three in the ebbing sunlight. Frank had explained that each species had their own special pattern so that males and females could find each other. They had gently reached out and scooped up one that had lazily fluttered a little too close, placing it in your palms so you could look closer as he corralled a different one into his hands. Julie had snatched one right out of the sky with a 'woo!' and a wide smile, holding her fingers tight around the bug as the three of you compared your bug's patterns.

The one Frank held went blink blink blink blink... blink blink...

While the one in your hands went blink flash flash... blink flash... flash...

And Julie's bug went blink blink blink... flash flash flash... blink blink blink...

The whole event had been a near magical moment, and you could have spent forever there, laughing and talking with your neighbours. But the world turned, and the sun set, and then suddenly you were looking above the yellow-white glow of Frank's lawn to see nothing-- just the darkness of the night.

It seemed like the two of them hadn't noticed the time pass either-- Julie made a small sound and looked at her wrist. She had no watch on.

"Oh my! It's basically nighttime!"

Frank let out a little huff, looking beyond his backyard with a disgruntled expression as if it had personally offended him.

"Well, that's no good."

They turned to you, then.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't noticed the time passing. I--"

"Don't worry about it!" you replied, standing up and rubbing your hands on your pants.

"It was a very lovely evening with you two. Thank you for inviting me, Frank."

You nodded at your grey-felted neighbour, whose scowl grew deeper.

"Oh, you're not staying over at Frank's?" Julie asked, tilting her head. Her eyes darted to her best friend before she piped up.

"That's great! Then you can stay at mine for the night! I had the idea for a new sleepover game called "double-pillow-dutch" that I really think you'll like!"

You laughed, shaking your head as you stepped off the porch. Carefully, of course, so as to not step on any fireflies.

"Thank you for the offer, but I'm okay. I'll just walk home, it's not that far."

You were able to see the two puppets exchange a sort of worried look between each other, now. You didn't quite understand it. "I- Well-- Um, if you're sure-" Frank stuttered, but you were already walking off into the dark.

"Goodnight you two! See you in the morning!"

Oddly enough, your words almost sounded muted, like speaking into fog. Yet you had seen no indication of such a thing while in Frank's backyard.

But you continued on into the night, only realizing after a dozen steps that it was much, much darker than you had realized.

You looked back, but you had already moved in such a way that obscured Frank's backyard from your dight. That carpet of tiny stars was gone-- only a handful of fireflies flew around in the night, their lights faint and flickering.

Swallowing heavily, you huffed out a heavy breath and continued on.

It was dark. Darker than dark. So dark you couldn't see your feet, or your hand waving in front of your face. The only way you could navigate was by the scant few fireflies that had wandered out into the neighbourhood, and the few porch lights that your neighbours still had on.

But those too, were going out. You watched, dismay washing over you, as Poppy's light winked out; the only thing you had been orienting yourself to.

You... probably should have taken Frank up on their offer.

You could hear the crunch of dirt under your shoes, though. So you were likely on the path that wound all the way around the neighbourhood. You just had to follow that, and you'd eventually get to your house. It was fine. Everything was fine.

...

You kinda felt like you were being watched.

Which was, like, probable. Some of your neighbours could be night owls, still ambling about in their homes. They could be looking right at you, and just not know. It was fine. There was nothing out there in the neighbourhood, anyway.

...

What was that?

Almost a slithering sound, something sliding over the grass. Faint, but disruptive enough for your ears to pick up on it. You held back a surprised noise, tucking your arms close to your chest as you turned in that direction.

You didn't see anything, of course. It was dark.

...

You took a step forward, the dirt crunching under your shoe. You cringed, freezing in place.

...

There it was again. That slithering. And almost a dragging, too. Like something picking its foot up.

...

You swallowed heavily and prepared to scream.

But then--

You heard a creaking, the faint grind of brick against brick. You turned to the noise just as a light went on and beamed directly into your eyes.

Ouch!

But yay!

It was Home who had lit the night up, porch light like a beacon of hope in the pitch blackness that had been your world for the past... However long it had been. Their eyes were turned in your direction, shutters rattling against their siding in a surprised, almost frantic way.

Their door opened a second later, and Wally popped out. Obviously interrupted in the middle of his nightly routine; bundled up in a red and yellow robe patterned much like his well loved (albeit blue) cardigan, a red sleepmask with a closed yellow eye design sitting on his forehead. His voice hardly carried as he turned his head towards one of his house's windows.

"What's wrong, Home?" he asked them lowly. They looked off in your direction, starting to creak out a response just as you blinked the purple spots out of your vision.

"Wally!" you called out, holding a hand up. His head turned towards the sound of your voice, eyelids flying back as he did so. 

"Oh, you." he replied, voice going airy with relief. His pupils flickered back and forth, as if trying to find you in the nights murk-- you lowered your hand as you realized he couldn't see it.

The felt above his eyes creased after a moment, smile shrinking just a touch.

"You shouldn't be out this late."

"I know." you huffed sheepishly as you strode towards Home, giving him a crooked smile as you reached the light. Crossing Home's warm porch light glow seemed to ease some sort of heaviness in your chest. Wally looked up at you, the crease disappearing as he tilted his head, eyelids drooping once more and smile returning to its usual width.

"I'm glad Home saw you out here."

Said house let out a squeeeeak as its door opened wider, doorknob slipping from Wally's hand. He looked to his now empty hand, closing and relaxing it after a second and turning back to you.

"Yes. Come on in." he said, stepping sideways away from Home to make room for you to enter. Your smile crinkled at the edges as you walked inside, Wally following close behind and shutting Home's door gently once you both had crossed the threshold.

The curtain on the opposite side of the door's hinges fluttered out at the air differential, snagging on one of your shoulders and brushing against your arm as the house creaked above you.

"Home's asking why you were walking all alone in the dark." Wally said, walking around to face you and clasping his hands in front of himself. You sighed, reaching out to pluck a bit of fuzz off of the collar of his thinly striped, mostly white pajamas. He stayed completely still as you did so, focused on your face.

"I was watching the fireflies in Frank's backyard with them and Julie, and we all lost track of time." you replied, brushing at the curtain curling around your elbow before gently plucking it up and off your body. It clung to you just a touch before relenting, leaving behind a prickle of static electricity across your skin.

"Oh? The fireflies?" Wally asked with a tilt of his head.

"Are they out already?"

"Yes! Did Frank not-- um..." you shut your mouth as you realized that Frank may have not invited Wally over on purpose. Like they hadn't invited Eddie because of his fear of insects, or Barnaby because of... well, obvious reasons.

"Not what?"

Wally blinked at you, eyes widening after a beat.

"Ah. Not invite me over? No, he did. I was painting." he said finally. You let out a reciprocal 'ah' and nodded, a wry twist to your mouth.

"Fair enough. I'm pretty sure they'll be here for a while, a week at least. You have plenty of time to see them."

You felt a yawn coming on, then. That urge that bubbled in your chest, in the bottom of your jaw. You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth to quell it, to no avail. Overtaken by the need, you covered your mouth and nose with your hand, squeezing your eyes shut as you let out a loud yawn.

"Ooogh, I'm sleepy." you said, looking down at Wally and smiling.

"Well, I should get going back to my house. Thanks for the save, you two."

His own smile flattened, slightly, that wrinkle returning as his eyelids drooped more at the outer corners. Home creaked around you, a door opening and slamming shut further in.

"But you're here now."

You could understand his mildly obtuse wording-- that he was offering for you to stay there overnight. You shook your head, waving a hand dismissively.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to intrude--"

You were interrupted by the deadbolt in the front door sliding shut with a solid ker-chunk. Home lifted a curtain to glare at you as you turned, surprised, at the sound. There was no heat to her gaze, but the message was clear as his curtain fell back to a restful, sleeping position. You weren't going back out until morning.

"You aren't intruding. We like having you over." Wally said, verbalizing Home's actions. You sighed, pressing your lips together before a smile overtook your frown.

"Fine, fine. I'll spend the night."

Wally straightened up, face brightening as his eyes went wide, smile regaining its warm, easy curve.

"How lovely. It's been a long time since we've had a sleepover."

You knew he was referring to him and Home, because you hadn't had a sleepover with Wally yet. He clapped his hands together, slowly, in such a way that made no noise.

Home creaked in confirmation. At the same time, the floorboards wiggled under your feet, and you couldn't help but let out a little 'psshh' as you relented and took your shoes off. You set them on the shoe rack as Home wriggled their curtains proudly, creaking in a smug way above you. You pressed your fingers to your lips and blew them a kiss before turning to Wally.

"Do you have any spare clothes I can use as pajamas? That'll fit me?"

Wally looked up and to the side, crossing his arms and putting a hand under his chin.

"I'm not sure. We can find out."

Home squeaked, and Wally nodded.

"Let's start there."

He began walking further into the house, and you followed close behind.

Turns out he did have some clothes in your size— or well, close to it. Some things Julie had left behind at some point. Or maybe Sally? Perhaps Frank’s clothes. Or Barnaby’s. Or a mix of two of the lot.

You weren’t sure— it was just a pair of yellow, soft cotton lounge pants in a bright floral pattern, and a dark blue shirt with a smiling, close-eyed moon on it. But Wally handed them to you, neatly folded in his outstretched hands, and you took them gratefully.

Changing in the bathroom, you emerged from it with your clothes folded haphazardly in your hands and some clinking sounds coming from the kitchen.

"Walls?" you called out curiously.

"Here." he responded evenly, and though it was a vague answer you confirmed to yourself that it was him moving about and walked down the stairs.

His kitchen was lit by the small light above the sink, casting the cozy nook in a warm glow. You really loved this part of Home-- the counter stretched around in a near complete rectangle, with dark blue countertops and red cabinets. A red stove sat on one wall, and a red fridge on the other. A kettle sat on the stove over a coil, and Wally stood on a wooden chair with his face in a cabinet. Dragged over from the dining table, from what you could gather.

"What'cha doing?" you asked as you stepped into the kitchen area, leaning back against a counter. Wally withdrew from the cabinet, holding a single mug in his hand.

"During sleepovers you have hot cocoa." he said, sounding like he was repeating the words of someone else. He tilted his head at you, questioning.

"Right?"

You nodded, and he nodded back in a sure way, setting the mug on the counter before grabbing another. Smiling at how he carefully stepped down from the chair and dragged it over to another set of cabinets to grab the cocoa mix.

You stood up from your lean to grab the kitchen chair as he went to the fridge for the milk, giving him a closed eye smile as you brought it back to the dining table and pushed it in.

"Oh. Thank you." Wally said, and you nodded.

"No problem."

You continued to help set up the drinks, grabbing spoons from the drawer (that Home had eased open as you approached) and pouring the milk in after Wally had scooped the spoonfuls into the mugs.

When the kettle whistled, he took it off, and you stirred as he poured. The scent of rich chocolate wafted up from the mugs, and you felt your mouth begin to water.

Wally picked his up, holding it with both hands and waiting as you grabbed your own before shuffling over to the living room. He waited for you to sit on the couch before he did, and copied your movements as you brought the mug up to your face and smelled the steam.

"Mmm..." you sighed.

"M..." Wally said, more of a short chirp than a sigh. You smiled at that and took a sip, though he simply stared down at his drink.

"Were the fireflies nice?" he asked you after you had pulled your mouth back from the lip of the mug.

"Oh yes! They're about yay big-" you made a circle with your index and thumb about the size of a small plum, "with fuzzy antenna and sweet little faces. Each species has their own little light show that helps them find each other. Isn't that lovely?"

"That's lovely." he said, imitating you. And you laughed out loud this time, chuckling as you went in for another swig. The two of you sat there in amicable silence; you slowly drank as Wally gazed down at his own, and as the warmth of the hot cocoa began to emanate through your body, you began to grow sleepy.

Home had only one bedroom-- what would have been a guest room was instead Wally's art room. You assumed you were sleeping on the couch, which was confirmed after you had finished your drink. As you set the empty mug on the coffee table, Wally set his mug down too, careful not spill it, before walking over to the linen closet. Wally stood on his tiptoes as he pulled out a thick quilted blanket, nearly tumbling back as Home pushed it out into his arms. You sat up in alarm, only relaxing as Wally regained his balance. The quilt was so thick and folded so well that it completely obscured his face; you laughed as he turned and shuffled forward slowly, blindly.

"Peek your head around the side, you can see where you're going that way." you said to him. He did so a second later, eyes widening slightly as his head popped out to the right. Your face scrunched up in amusement as he strode forward much more confidently, now, walking over to the couch and setting the blanket on your lap. He then grabbed the decorative pillow sitting off to the side of the couch and turned it to lay against the arm, fluffing the sides before turning to you.

"I'll tuck you in."

You raised your eyebrows, but nodded, leaning back and swinging your legs up onto the couch cushions. You started to unfold the blanket, yours and Wally's hands brushing for a moment as he did the same-- eventually you were able to pull out one half of the corners as he did the others, pulling the blanket down over your feet.

You craned your head to watch as Wally used both hands to tuck the blanket down and around your feet; gently, so gently as to barely be effective, he moved up, the motions of his hands similar to how he fluffed the pillow your head was resting on.

Still, you appreciated the effort he was making, giving him a smile as he pressed his hands around your shoulders.

"Thank you Wally." you said.

"You're welcome." he replied. You saw his eyes dilate as they met your own, just slightly. Then, he leaned in, eyes sliding shut as he pressed his mouth to your forehead.

"Mwah!"

His felt tickled your skin, and you giggled as he pulled back with an exaggerated sound effect.

"Good night neighbour." he said.

"Goodnight." you replied, blinking sleepily at him. You watched as he picked up both mugs, closing your eyes and listening as he went to the kitchen and poured the contents of his own out, setting them both in the sink.

"Good night Home." you heard him say quietly. Home let out a few sleepy squeaks, and you heard Wally walk up the stairs as the lamp in the living room turned off, letting the darkness settle behind your eyelids.

"Goodnight Home." you murmured as well-- it was only polite, after all. The house creaked back, and though you never really understood him you knew exactly what he said.

Goodnight.

[nasa]

NASA Inspires Your Crafty Creations for World Embroidery Day

It’s amazing what you can do with a little needle and thread! For #WorldEmbroideryDay, we asked what NASA imagery inspired you. You responded with a variety of embroidered creations, highlighting our different areas of study.

Here’s what we found:

Webb’s Carina Nebula

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, created this embroidered piece inspired by Webb’s Carina Nebula image. Captured in infrared light, this image revealed for the first time previously invisible areas of star birth. Credit: Wendy Edwards, NASA. Pattern credit: Clare Bray, Climbing Goat Designs

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, first learned cross stitch in middle school where she had to pick rotating electives and cross stitch/embroidery was one of the options.  “When I look up to the stars and think about how incredibly, incomprehensibly big it is out there in the universe, I’m reminded that the universe isn’t ‘out there’ at all. We’re in it,” she said. Her latest piece focused on Webb’s image release of the Carina Nebula. The image showcased the telescope’s ability to peer through cosmic dust, shedding new light on how stars form.

Ocean Color Imagery: Exploring the North Caspian Sea

Danielle Currie of Satellite Stitches created a piece inspired by the Caspian Sea, taken by NASA’s ocean color satellites. Credit: Danielle Currie/Satellite Stitches

Danielle Currie is an environmental professional who resides in New Brunswick, Canada. She began embroidering at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic as a hobby to take her mind off the stress of the unknown. Danielle’s piece is titled “46.69, 50.43,” named after the coordinates of the area of the northern Caspian Sea captured by LandSat8 in 2019.

An image of the Caspian Sea captured by Landsat 8 in 2019. Credit: NASA

Two Hubble Images of the Pillars of Creation, 1995 and 2015

Melissa Cole of Star Stuff Stitching created an embroidery piece based on the Hubble image Pillars of Creation released in 1995. Credit: Melissa Cole, Star Stuff Stitching

Melissa Cole is an award-winning fiber artist from Philadelphia, PA, USA, inspired by the beauty and vastness of the universe. They began creating their own cross stitch patterns at 14, while living with their grandparents in rural Michigan, using colored pencils and graph paper.  The Pillars of Creation (Eagle Nebula, M16), released by the Hubble Telescope in 1995 when Melissa was just 11 years old, captured the imagination of a young person in a rural, religious setting, with limited access to science education.

Lauren Wright Vartanian of the shop Neurons and Nebulas created this piece inspired by the Hubble Space Telescope’s 2015 25th anniversary re-capture of the Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Lauren Wright Vartanian, Neurons and Nebulas

Lauren Wright Vartanian of Guelph, Ontario Canada considers herself a huge space nerd. She’s a multidisciplinary artist who took up hand sewing after the birth of her daughter. She’s currently working on the illustrations for a science themed alphabet book, made entirely out of textile art. It is being published by Firefly Books and comes out in the fall of 2024. Lauren said she was enamored by the original Pillars image released by Hubble in 1995. When Hubble released a higher resolution capture in 2015, she fell in love even further! This is her tribute to those well-known images.

James Webb Telescope Captures Pillars of Creation

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art, created a rectangular version of Webb’s Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art

Darci Lenker of Norman, Oklahoma started embroidery in college more than 20 years ago, but mainly only used it as an embellishment for her other fiber works. In 2015, she started a daily embroidery project where she planned to do one one-inch circle of embroidery every day for a year.  She did a collection of miniature thread painted galaxies and nebulas for Science Museum Oklahoma in 2019. Lenker said she had previously embroidered the Hubble Telescope’s image of Pillars of Creation and was excited to see the new Webb Telescope image of the same thing. Lenker could not wait to stitch the same piece with bolder, more vivid colors.

Milky Way

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art was inspired by NASA’s imaging of the Milky Way Galaxy. Credit: Darci Lenker

In this piece, Lenker became inspired by the Milky Way Galaxy, which is organized into spiral arms of giant stars that illuminate interstellar gas and dust. The Sun is in a finger called the Orion Spur.

The Cosmic Microwave Background

This image shows an embroidery design based on the cosmic microwave background, created by Jessica Campbell, who runs Astrostitches. Inside a tan wooden frame, a colorful oval is stitched onto a black background in shades of blue, green, yellow, and a little bit of red. Credit: Jessica Campbell/ Astrostitches

Jessica Campbell obtained her PhD in astrophysics from the University of Toronto studying interstellar dust and magnetic fields in the Milky Way Galaxy. Jessica promptly taught herself how to cross-stitch in March 2020 and has since enjoyed turning astronomical observations into realistic cross-stitches. Her piece was inspired by the cosmic microwave background, which displays the oldest light in the universe.

The full-sky image of the temperature fluctuations (shown as color differences) in the cosmic microwave background, made from nine years of WMAP observations. These are the seeds of galaxies, from a time when the universe was under 400,000 years old. Credit: NASA/WMAP Science Team

GISSTEMP: NASA’s Yearly Temperature Release

Katy Mersmann, a NASA social media specialist, created this embroidered piece based on NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS) global annual temperature record. Earth’s average surface temperature in 2020 tied with 2016 as the warmest year on record. Credit: Katy Mersmann, NASA

Katy Mersmann is a social media specialist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Md. She started embroidering when she was in graduate school. Many of her pieces are inspired by her work as a communicator. With climate data in particular, she was inspired by the researchers who are doing the work to understand how the planet is changing. The GISTEMP piece above is based on a data visualization of 2020 global temperature anomalies, still currently tied for the warmest year on record.

In addition to embroidery, NASA continues to inspire art in all forms. Check out other creative takes with Landsat Crafts and the James Webb Space telescope public art gallery.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[clementineinn]

and in the early quiet, i have you

abstract: in a rain-slick town at the end of a long case, two BAU agents are left with one motel room and a quiet kind of exhaustion that settles deep in the bones. the night is ordinary in every outward way — a flickering lamp, a single bed, the distant hush of passing cars — but something unspoken lingers in the stillness. as dawn draws gold across thin curtains and coffee steams quietly between their hands, a fragile shift begins. nothing is said aloud. nothing needs to be. in the soft hours between storm and morning, the space between them becomes something else entirely — not confessed, not defined, but felt.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff fluff fluff!!

word count: 6.3k

note: surprise, surprise, another story because even tho i should be studying for upcoming finals, the thought of spencer reid makes me want to write & write until my laptop dies!! and it’s a typical “share a hotel bed” story… i honestly can’t help my delusional self. but enough blabbering, enjoy! :)

BAU, rural Virginia, 2008

The motel carried the scent of mildew steeped in old rain and burnt coffee left too long on a warmer, the kind that hissed faintly but hadn’t worked properly since sometime in the early ’90s. It was the smell of something forgotten, of days that blurred together beneath buzzing light and laminate countertops. The wallpaper clung to the walls in surrender, peeling at the corners in tired curls, like it had once tried to escape but had been pressed flat again — stapled into compliance by years of humid summers and slow neglect. Its pattern, once floral, now looked more like a memory of one.

Above the front desk, a single fluorescent light buzzed — not a hum, but a dying flicker, like a firefly trapped behind plastic. It blinked unevenly, throwing off color in jaundiced bursts that made even the clean parts of the room look sour-edged, touched by something unspoken.

The air itself felt too still, like it had been exhaled long ago and never pulled back in.

It was past midnight — closer to one, maybe later. The team had rolled in after closing the file on a grisly double homicide, two days of chasing false leads through rain-soaked woods and narrow country roads. Everyone was running on fumes and caffeine, jackets damp, boots muddy, eyes sunken.

Garcia’s chipper voice cut through the speaker on Hotch’s phone like a bell through fog. “And I swear, I triple-checked, but the town's got, like, four working hotel rooms and someone at the front desk must’ve botched the count. Reid and Y/N, you’re sharing. Don’t kill each other.”

There was a beat of total silence.

Spencer blinked slowly, as if trying to calculate a response that wouldn’t get him laughed at or smacked. His mouth opened—then closed. His brow creased faintly. He stood perfectly still, trying not to blink too fast.

Sharing a hotel room. With her.

The words echoed louder than Garcia’s voice had, louder than the buzz of the front desk printer, louder than the weight of exhaustion humming beneath his ribs.

He swallowed. Tried to think of something reasonable to say — something statistical, maybe, or logistical — but all he could manage was a quick calculation of how many square feet were typically allotted to double-occupancy rooms in mid-budget motels. The number didn’t help.

Y/N, close enough that he could feel the ghost of her body heat through the fabric of his sleeve. Her hair was damp from rain or sweat — or both — and clung slightly to her cheek in a way that made him want, wildly, to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, which he didn’t, just arched a brow.

Her expression didn’t say thrilled—but it didn’t say bothered, either. Maybe just too tired to care.

He had imagined being this close before. Not like this. But close. He'd imagined her in a room that wasn't a crime scene. In light that wasn't overhead fluorescents. Not touching — just near. Her jacket draped over the chair. Her toothbrush next to his. Her voice cutting through the quiet of an evening like it belonged there.

And now this. One room. One bed, maybe. Or two. He didn’t know which was worse.

“Fine by me,” she muttered, her voice rough around the edges. She turned toward the clerk behind the counter, lifting her badge lazily, and he turned towards his own pulse and tried to steady it with science. “As long as he doesn’t snore.”

Spencer startled slightly. “I don’t. Statistically, most adults don’t snore unless they suffer from—uh—obstructive sleep apnea or elevated BMI, and I—”

She threw him a look over her shoulder that somehow managed to be fond and sarcastic all at once, softened by the corners of a smile.

“Never mind,” he finished under his breath.

From behind them, Morgan let out a low, delighted whistle as he dropped his duffel bag with a thud. “Oof. I give it five minutes before Reid starts talking about REM cycles and pillow ergonomics.”

“Three,” Prentiss said, yawning so hard she nearly folded in half. “If Y/N’s lucky.”

“Make sure there’s a fire extinguisher nearby,” Rossi added dryly. “In case the sexual tension burns the place down.”

Spencer choked audibly. “Wh-what?”

Y/N just sighed, accepting the motel keycard from the clerk with a tired smile. “You’re all hilarious. Should’ve gone into stand-up instead of profiling.”

Hotch, who looked like he’d aged a year just today, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Everyone, just get some sleep. Wheels up at eight.”

“Sleep,” JJ said under her breath. “He says that like it’s a real thing.”

The team dispersed, murmuring goodnights and dragging their feet across the worn carpet. Reid hesitated, still half-frozen in front of the check-in counter, until Y/N nudged him with her elbow.

“Come on, Doctor,” she said, voice low but not unkind. “We’ll flip for the side of the bed that doesn’t sag.”

He followed, clutching his satchel a little too tightly, brain already spiraling through a hundred questions about motel hygiene, boundary etiquette, and whether she’d mind if he kept the lamp on to read.

Behind them, Morgan called out one last time.

“Hey, Reid—try not to quote Freud in your sleep.”

Spencer turned slightly. “That was one time.”

“That we know of,” Prentiss teased.

Y/N just shook her head and smiled faintly, muttering under her breath as they reached their door, “...God help me.”

And despite everything — the smell, the exhaustion, the unexpected closeness — Spencer smiled too.

The room wasn’t bad, exactly. It was worse than that.

A single queen bed sat pressed awkwardly against the far wall, its frame tilted just slightly as if it had been shuffled one too many times without care. The mattress sagged visibly at its center — a weary slump, the shape of too many bodies and not enough sleep. It looked like it had given up decades ago, resigned to its mediocrity, still standing only because it hadn’t yet been asked to collapse.

The nightstand beside it wobbled when Y/N rested her hand on it — the kind of wobble that hinted at secrets in its joints. Its surface was tacky, scattered with water rings like fading constellations, remnants of vending-machine coffee and fast food sodas left behind by a hundred forgotten guests. The drawer stuck slightly when she tugged it open, revealing a frayed motel Bible with dog-eared pages and a spine that had long since lost its will to stand upright. It looked like it had witnessed more sins than salvations — a silent witness to nights more desperate than divine.

The lampshade beside it sat askew, casting bent shadows across the walls that made the peeling wallpaper seem to shiver under its own history. The bulb flickered once as she passed her hand near it, as if offended by movement.

Across the room, the curtains hung limp and unbothered, a tired beige that seemed incapable of remembering it was once a color. They draped unevenly in front of the window, which the rattling A/C unit sat beneath like a wheezy dog, exhaling with shallow sighs and occasional groans. It tried, poor thing — tried to hum, to breathe, to cool — but even its best effort sounded like the last verse of a long-forgotten lullaby.

The carpet was worse. Stiff beneath her socks, the kind of synthetic weave that clung to old stains and dead air. Its original pattern was impossible to guess — maybe something floral once, or geometric, now worn down to nothing but the ghosts of intention — stained in ways that made Y/N instinctively keep her shoes on.

She dropped her duffel bag near a sagging vinyl chair that looked like it had lost its will to hold weight some years ago. The bag landed with a dull thud, and Y/N followed it with a groan, rolling her neck until it popped, the sound unusually loud in the thin stillness of the room.

“Well,” she said, glancing around the room with a tired smirk. “At least it’s not haunted.”

Spencer lingered in the doorway like stepping inside might set off a trap. His eyes scanned the bed, the single pillow, the questionable linens. He adjusted the strap of his bag across his chest and cleared his throat.

“I can take the floor,” he said quickly. “Or the chair, actually. It’s probably—well, ergonomically speaking, the floor might actually be better. Less spinal compression.”

Y/N turned to face him, lifting a brow. “Reid.”

He paused. “Yes?”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor. Or that chair. You’ll wake up paralyzed.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“We’re adults,” she cut in gently, but firmly. “It’s one night. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. No one's dignity gets hurt.”

Spencer opened his mouth, probably to protest again, but closed it when she walked past him toward the dresser. He nodded — a quick, jerky motion — and finally stepped inside. He placed his bag neatly against the wall, as if afraid to take up too much space.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was careful — like they were both stepping across a narrow ledge between professionalism and this is very not a normal work night.

They moved around each other in a quiet, nearly wordless ballet, the kind that came not from familiarity, but from exhaustion — two people orbiting the same small space, too tired to stumble, too careful not to touch. Each step was an offering: Here. I'll shift. You go ahead.

Y/N flipped aimlessly through the channels on the motel’s ancient television, each image flickering into static or oversaturated local ads, their voices too loud for the dimness of the room. After a few half-hearted presses of the remote, she sighed and let the screen fall dark again. The silence that followed was somehow louder.

Across the room, Spencer unzipped his go-bag with a soft, familiar rasp. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times — book in one hand, travel toothbrush in the other, motions neat and practiced. The ritual of winding down — mechanical, necessary, almost sacred.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence between them had a weight to it, not heavy in a painful way, but dense with what they’d just endured. It draped over their shoulders like a blanket that no one had chosen, stitched from crime scene photographs and long hallways and too many unanswered questions.

Spencer slipped into the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a softness more deliberate than soundproofing required. She heard the click of the light switch, the rush of the faucet, and then nothing — like he’d disappeared behind a veil.

Alone in the room, Y/N changed quickly, mechanically, peeling herself out of her work clothes with fingers still stiff from adrenaline. She dressed behind the edge of the warped wardrobe door, slipping into an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn cotton sweats that clung to no shape in particular. She caught her reflection in the mirror once or twice — pale, tired, a little out of focus — catching herself looking almost like someone else in the low light. Softer. Warmer.

Later, when she emerged from her time in the bathroom, brushing her hair back with one hand, she found him already sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward slightly, a book open on his lap. His posture was tense — not like he was reading for comfort, but like he was using it to hold himself together. His shoulders were taut, as if bracing for aftershocks. The curve of his spine, the set of his jaw — all of it familiar to her now. That subtle tremble of someone trying to make the day shrink down to something survivable.

She hesitated. Then crossed the room, slow.

“Hey,” she said softly. Her voice barely reached him over the gentle rumble of the AC. “You okay?”

He didn’t look up. Just nodded faintly, eyes on the page like it was safer than facing her. “Yeah. Just… decompressing.”

The words were low, a little frayed around the edges.

She knew that tone. She’d heard it in hotel rooms before — in herself, in others. The sound of trying not to dream about things you couldn’t unsee.

Y/N nodded and reached for the light switch, flicking the main lamp off. The crooked bedside light stayed on — its bulb humming faintly, casting the room in patches of slanted gold and soft shadow, warm on his cheekbone, sharp across his collar. She could still see the faint furrow in his brow, the slight tremor in his fingers as he turned another page he wasn’t really absorbing.

She climbed into the bed and pulled the thin motel blanket up over herself. The sheets were crisp, cool, and stung faintly of bleach — that particular brand of clean that never felt quite clean enough. It smelled like anonymity, like every night that had come before.

Spencer didn’t move.

Not away. Not toward her.

Just stayed where he was, perched on the edge like he wasn’t sure the bed would let him stay.

The room creaked once — its bones shifting with the settling of old wood and weather.

Outside, a dog barked, once, then fell quiet. Somewhere, a car passed on wet pavement, its tires hissing softly.

Then, finally — Spencer reached up and closed the book, slipping a folded motel notepad between the pages like it mattered. He turned, slow and cautious, and reached for the switch on the lamp.

The light clicked off.

And the darkness that followed was not empty — it was stitched with quiet, pulsing things. The gentle whirr of the AC. The distant blink of headlights crawling across the ceiling. The shared silence of two people who had almost said something but hadn’t.

They lay there, backs turned, a careful margin of space between them, deliberate and yet uncertain. Not touching. Not speaking.

But very, very awake.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more.

Neither of them moved.

The room had settled into a hushed kind of stillness, the kind that only existed between two people who weren’t speaking but knew the silence was saying everything for them. The almost touch of bodies on a shared mattress. The sharp awareness of every breath. The unsaid things hanging in the air like dust motes in sunlight — except there was no sun here. Just the low sigh of the air unit and the occasional car passing on wet pavement outside.

Spencer broke the silence first, his voice so quiet she almost missed it.

“I don’t usually sleep well in unfamiliar places.”

Y/N blinked at the ceiling — or what she imagined was the ceiling — and turned toward the sound of his voice in the dark. His tone was tentative, like the words had been balancing on the edge of his tongue for too long.

“You and me both,” she murmured back.

There was a pause — then the soft puff of an exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“You ever get the feeling your brain’s just… replaying things on a loop? Like it’s doing it on purpose. Just to mess with you.”

“All the time,” she whispered, meaning it more than he probably realized.

Outside, rain began to fall, tapping gently against the windowpane like a reminder that the world was still turning, that morning would come eventually whether they were ready for it or not.

There was something about the sound — soft, persistent — that made the room feel even smaller. Like the two of them were trapped inside a snow globe that had finally started to settle after being violently shaken.

Spencer's voice came again, slower this time. Carefully.

“I was ten the first time I stayed in a motel like this. My mom… she had an episode. One of the bad ones. I didn’t want to call anyone. I thought I could fix it if I just… waited long enough.”

He paused, and she could almost feel the weight of the memory pressing down on the mattress between them.

“I stayed up all night reading medical textbooks,” he continued. “I thought if I could just understand it, if I knew enough… maybe she’d be okay.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She didn’t say anything — not because she didn’t want to, but because anything she could say would feel too small.

But something shifted between them — not the distance, not physically, but the space. It changed. Warmer. More honest. Less guarded.

“Sometimes I still do that,” Spencer admitted, so softly she almost thought she imagined it. “Recite facts. Formulas. Statistics. It’s like... it makes the noise in my head line up.”

“I count ceiling tiles,” she offered after a moment, voice equally hushed.

There was a pause. Then: the faintest smile. She could hear it in the way he answered.

“How many are there in this room?”

“Nineteen,” she said. “And a half.”

“…You counted?”

“Of course.”

Another beat. She could almost feel him smiling for real now — not the kind he gave colleagues or strangers, but something softer. Private. Meant only for the dark. She wished she could see it, wished she could press a hand to the shape of it, hold it still for a moment longer.

Then came his voice again — low, sudden, unguarded.

“I like your voice.”

The words slipped out like a secret, not rushed, but surrendered — a thought he hadn’t planned to say, but didn’t regret once it left him — and they hung between them in the dark, raw and real and startling.

“It’s… calming,” he added, after a second passed in which her heart flipped entirely over.

Y/N felt heat rise in her chest, blooming out in every direction. She was grateful for the night, for the veil it wrapped around them. “You know, for a guy who doesn’t talk much, you say a lot of really surprising things.”

“I overthink everything except what I probably should overthink,” he said, and there was that note again — embarrassment laced with endearment. His voice curling around the edges of uncertainty.

She smiled softly, staring up into blackness. “Like this?”

A pause.

Then, with disarming honesty: “Yes.”

The air changed — imperceptibly at first, like the shift in pressure before a storm. The silence between them stopped being still. It became something charged, alive. She could feel it in her fingertips. The kind of awareness that makes your skin feel like a wire for static. Her hand, unnoticed until now, had drifted toward the center of the bed — not quite reaching for him, but almost. Her fingers rested on the mattress, no more than an inch away from his.

She hadn’t even realized she’d done it.

But he noticed. Spencer always noticed when it came to her.

And then he moved. Just slightly.

The mattress shifted, weight leaning closer.

Not all the way. Not enough to blur anything that still needed to stay defined. But enough to close the distance.

She felt it — his warmth, his breath. He didn’t speak.

Instead, his fingers brushed lightly across hers again, then higher — a gentle, hesitant trail up her arm, to her shoulder, until he stopped. Waited.

And then — he touched her cheek.

Just with the backs of his fingers. A careful, reverent motion. Nothing seeking, nothing demanding. Like he wasn’t sure if she’d let him — but had needed, just once, to know what it felt like.

She turned her face into his touch without thinking.

That was the moment. That was the shift.

He exhaled — slow, shaky, a sound like surrender.

Their foreheads nearly met, just breathing each other in, close but not kissing, something held in the space between them like a flame cupped between hands.

“I think…” she said softly, her voice laced with something raw, “if I let myself care too much, I’ll fall apart when someone gets hurt. Or leaves. Or—”

“Dies,” he finished gently, and there was no judgment in his tone. Only understanding.

Y/N swallowed, her throat tight. “Yeah.”

Silence gathered again — but this one was different. Full. Anchored. A kind of fragile closeness held together by breath and trembling restraint.

And then, softer: “But maybe… not caring means you miss something good before it even happens.”

He was close enough now that she could feel his breath against her skin. Close enough that his thumb swept once — barely — beneath her eye, as if tracing the shape of a thought.

When his fingers found hers again, they didn’t hesitate this time.

He didn’t hook just his pinky. He laced his hand with hers, slow and careful, palm to palm, as if testing how well they fit.

She let him.

Just that. No fanfare. No breathless declarations.

A simple tether.

Small.

Barely anything. But everything.

The rain had stopped sometime during the night.

Neither of them had noticed when. It must’ve softened slowly, like a lullaby losing its last few notes — fading into that rare, suspended quiet that only belongs to the hours between two and five in the morning. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room — it settles into your chest.

The motel’s heater had grumbled awake once or twice, but even that had fallen still now, leaving the air just shy of cold. Not unpleasant, just enough to remind them they were still awake, still sharing breath and space and something too new to name.

They didn’t speak again.

No questions. No clarifications. Just the nearness of another body and the echo of what almost was.

They lay there. Still. Tired down to the bone. The kind of tired that sinks into the muscles, that reaches behind the eyes, that quiets even the thoughts that usually hum too loud to sleep.

Sleep didn’t come like a curtain falling. It came like a tide reaching the shore, slow and hesitant, lapping at their edges until neither of them remembered where the waking ended and the resting began.

At some point, they shifted — not together, not intentionally — but they drifted into it anyway. Her knee brushing his calf. The blanket pulled slightly more his way. Her wrist resting beside his, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

He moved once, only slightly — perhaps chasing warmth in his sleep, or perhaps chasing her. His forehead dipped just near the crown of her head. Not quite nestled, not quite distant. A breath’s space.

The world outside the motel walls kept turning, indifferent — the road still slick from earlier rain, the clouds beginning to part in thin ribbons above the dark rooftops.

But in the room, time did something stranger. It stretched. Softened. Folded inward.

Here, there was no BAU briefing. No file folders. No bloodied timeline etched across the mind. There was only this moment: two people on the same mattress, sharing a silence that had stopped being empty hours ago.

And somewhere in the dark, the weight of the day finally let go of them.

Morning didn’t arrive all at once.

It came like breath — slow and warm, seeping through the cracks in the curtains with the gentlest insistence. Gold filtered in threads, catching the floating dust in the air like suspended stars. The first light slipped through the narrow gap in the motel curtains, low and gold, spilling in slow stripes across the worn carpet and the rumpled edge of the bed. It stretched carefully, casting a halo of amber around the room’s quieter corners — catching the curve of a duffel bag, glinting off the silver zipper of a half-buttoned jacket left slung over the chair.

It moved in silence across the motel walls, brushing the bedside table, stretching long across the rumpled edge of the bed, and settling — at last — over them. The light touched her first.

It slid along her jaw, softened the line of her shoulder beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. It kissed the crown of her head where it rested just inches from him, and then reached him, too — lighting the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheek, the small, slack part in his lips as he breathed, deeply and evenly.

It painted the sheets in soft yellows and warmed the motel wallpaper just enough to make it look less gray, less tired. The dust in the air floated lazily through the glow, each mote drifting like it had all the time in the world. The room felt suspended — not quite awake, but no longer asleep. The kind of light that didn’t demand anything. It just arrived, quietly, like a friend who knew when not to speak.

They had shifted during the night.

Her body had curved toward his, instinct more than intention. One leg rested near his, barely brushing at the knee. Her arm lay loosely across the space between them, not touching, not reaching — but open. His chest rose with the kind of sleep that’s earned, not granted — and his hand, somewhere between dreaming and waking, rested on the mattress just beside hers.

For a long moment, neither moved. The room glowed like it had remembered how to hold warmth again.

Then Spencer stirred — slowly, like something waking not just from sleep but from stillness. His brows twitched faintly before his eyes opened — soft golden, brown, unfocused at first, then sharpening in the dim morning gold.

He didn’t lift his head.

Just turned it — slightly — and saw her there beside him, not yet awake. Her lashes dusted her cheek, her lips parted just slightly. She looked less like the woman who interrogated killers and more like something caught in a moment between sleep and awake.

His gaze lingered.

Not out of longing, not out of possession — but out of uncertainty, quiet and hovering, like the moment before a page turns in a book you’ve read a hundred times and still aren’t ready for.

Spencer’s body registered the closeness before his brain did — the gentle weight of her against his side, the faint dip in the mattress where she’d curled inward sometime during the night. The softness of her — warmth through cotton, hair brushing his shoulder, the ghost of breath on his collarbone.

It wasn’t intentional. Just the natural way two people drift together in sleep, seeking comfort without meaning to. Without realizing they needed it.

She breathed evenly beside him, still deep in it — a slow, steady rhythm that sounded more like peace than anything they’d touched in days. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her hip brushing his, and her arm settling more loosely across his middle. Not deliberate. Just instinct, gravity, and something unspoken.

He didn’t move.

He should have, maybe. A part of him whispered it — the one still ruled by rules, by etiquette, by the ever-present line they were never supposed to toe.

But another part — the quieter one, the one that hadn’t rested in years — just stayed still. And let her be close.

He memorized the moment like he might forget it in the next breath. The hush of her sleep. The way her body curved, in that subtle way that suggested trust before it had a name. Her presence was quiet, but it settled in his chest like warmth held too long in the hands.

He closed his eyes again, letting the gold of morning light fan softly across his face. His pulse evened out.

Just for a minute longer.

Just until the alarm went off.

Y/N blinked awake to the faint murmur of traffic, blurred and distant, like a city remembered through a dream. Somewhere beyond the thin motel walls, tires slid over wet asphalt, and the world began to stir — slow, reluctant, half-hearted.

The room smelled like cheap coffee and rain-damp carpet, with a trace of something warmer — something human — fading from the air. Her senses stirred before her thoughts did, tracing the edges of the morning like fingers brushing across fabric.

The bed beside her was empty now, but still creased with his shape, still warm where he’d been. That warmth lingered — not just in the sheets, but in her ribs, her throat, the base of her spine — like a body memory, like heat from a fire long gone out but not forgotten.

She sat up slowly, her limbs heavy with sleep, and ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back in a motion more instinct than intention. The blanket slipped down her shoulder. The motel room came into focus in pieces.

There he was.

Across the room, half in shadow, Spencer stood at the tiny motel sink, fully dressed, his back to her. The collar of his shirt was slightly rumpled. His sleeves were rolled with absent-minded precision to his elbows, and his shoulders were drawn in — not tense, just inward, like a man still half-lost in thought.

The light from the window pooled at his feet, pale and gold, catching in the steam rising from the carafe. He moved with quiet care, pouring the coffee into two paper cups — the kind with peeling labels and limp lids that never stayed on.

The scene struck her as oddly cinematic — the soft clink of ceramic against Formica, the halo of morning light turning steam into gold thread, the way he paused to watch the liquid settle, like there was something sacred in the stillness.

There was no rush in his movements. No expectation. Just a kind of calm intimacy, like he’d been doing this for years — rising quietly before the person he’d let stay asleep.

He hadn’t noticed she was awake yet. And something about that — his unselfconscious gentleness, the quiet offering he was building out of caffeine and quiet hands — made her chest ache, soft and slow.

She didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

She just watched him there, in the hush between sleep and day, and felt something shift in her.

Something that wouldn’t quite let her look away.

She didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him in the soft reverence of morning, the way he moved like someone trying not to disturb the air around him. The kind of care that wasn’t performative — just part of him. Built in. Automatic.

Her voice, when it finally came, was low from sleep and too-soft dreams. “You’re up early.”

Spencer turned at the sound — not startled, exactly, but like he hadn’t expected the world to speak back yet. His eyes found hers, a little wide at first, then softening. There was something different in the way he looked at her now. Not unreadable, but carefully read. Like he’d spent the whole night making sense of her from inches away and wasn’t quite done yet.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “You looked like you needed it.”

She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and leaned slightly against the bedframe, blinking the morning into focus. “Thanks.”

He walked over and handed her a cup. “Two creamers, no sugar.”

She blinked at the cup in her hands — warm, imperfect, full of gesture.

Then, looked up at him. “You’re serious?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t joke about coffee.”

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, curving just slightly — a bare flicker of mischief, barely awake. It caught her off guard in the best way.

She smiled, small but genuine, and took the cup. Their fingers touched — more charged than casual, and not unnoticed. The brush was brief, but something hung there, invisible and unmistakable, like the shift in temperature just before spring.

“Thanks,” she said softly, and she meant more than just the coffee.

He nodded once — that subtle, contained nod of his — and settled into the chair near the window. He brought his own cup to his lips and sipped, then grimaced.

“It’s terrible,” he said, and it came out with a breath of a laugh, the kind you let go of when you’re too tired to pretend otherwise.

She took a sip of hers and winced with a chuckle. “Oh, absolutely. But I’ve had worse.”

He looked over the rim of his cup at her, eyes bright in the morning light, still soft with sleep. There was a quiet honesty in his expression — a flicker of understanding, like they'd both just confessed to something bigger than coffee.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

Silence settled between them — but not the kind that fills a room. This silence felt like a shared blanket, light and unspoken, something they could both tuck into without fear. It was the kind that lingered between people who had survived something, and who had, just briefly, let themselves rest.

Neither of them mentioned the way they’d woken up — the faint impression of warmth where bodies had drifted close, the accidental tangle of limbs, the peace of it. It didn’t need to be narrated. The moment existed outside of language, a quiet seam in time they both instinctively protected.

Y/N leaned back against the headboard, pulling her legs up beneath her, letting her head tilt slightly toward the sun-warmed wall. “I think this might be the worst coffee I’ve ever had in a cup this small.”

Spencer gave a dry, contemplative nod. “A study in disproportionate suffering.”

She laughed — not a full one, just that little under-the-breath kind that slips out when you don’t expect it to. And when she looked over, he was already watching her — not staring, not intrusive, just taking her in, like he was cataloging the sound for later.

And maybe he was.

The light moved slowly across the carpet. Dust floated in golden threads through the air.

Neither of them rushed.

Eventually, they moved.

Not because they wanted to, but because time, in its quiet way, kept ticking forward. The room had begun to exhale, the spell loosening stitch by stitch as the morning continued to unfurl itself through the gaps in the curtains. The motel clock, dusty and stubborn on the wall, blinked an unforgiving 7:14.

Spencer stood first, rinsing out his empty coffee cup with a quick flick of the wrist, like it would somehow undo the taste. Y/N followed, folding her sweatshirt over one arm and smoothing her hair in the warped mirror near the door. The room was back to what it had been the night before — neutral, anonymous, temporary. But it didn’t feel the same. The air held the shape of something that had happened there. Something small, but real.

Outside, the light had bloomed into something richer — a pale-gold hush spilling across the pavement, catching in puddles and the curves of windshield glass. It shimmered in patches, like the sun itself hadn’t fully woken yet, still rubbing its eyes after the rain.

Spencer opened the motel room door, and a breath of cool air swept in, lifting the edge of the curtain, brushing against her cheek like a hand passing over still water.

It was brighter outside than it had any right to be after the storm — the kind of soft, post-rain light that made everything look washed and half-forgiven. Puddles glimmered across the parking lot. The motel sign buzzed faintly overhead.

Y/N stepped out beside him, coffee still in hand, the steam drifting in thin ribbons, and blinked into the light. Her footsteps felt quieter than usual, as though even the earth was still blinking itself awake. The air smelled like wet pavement, warm leaves, and cheap coffee — all strangely beautiful when carried on sunlight.

The rest of the team was spread across the parking lot in small, languid motions — the day hadn’t fully found them yet. Morgan leaned back against the SUV like he belonged to the morning, coffee in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. Prentiss swung her boots idly from the edge of the hood, and JJ laughed at something Rossi muttered beneath his breath.

And then they saw her.

Well, them.

His grin arrived before his words did.

“Well, well,” he called, pushing off the side of the car with his shoulder. “Look who finally emerged from the love nest.”

Y/N didn’t even flinch. “The what?”

“You heard me,” he said, smug as ever. “One bed, weird weather, unresolved tension. I’ve seen this episode before.”

Prentiss gave an exaggerated gasp from where she sat on the hood of the SUV. “Wait. Was this the part where they’re forced to confront their deeply buried feelings under fluorescent lighting and questionable linens?”

“Don’t forget the horror of shared toothpaste,” JJ added, hiding a smirk behind her to-go cup.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but amused. “For the record, I used my own toothpaste. And we survived. Barely.”

Spencer stayed quiet beside her, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, posture loose but unmistakably aware of the attention.

Morgan narrowed his eyes, mock-serious. “What about you, Reid? You holding up? Or did Y/N’s snoring ruin the fragile ecosystem of your dreams?”

Spencer didn’t blink. “Actually, the white noise was surprisingly helpful.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Prentiss and a full-on choked noise from JJ.

Y/N turned to him, incredulous. “Was that a joke?”

He shrugged, eyes barely concealing his amusement. “Interpret it however you want.”

She stared at him for a beat, then laughed — quiet, genuine, the kind that cracked through sleep and silence like sunlight hitting glass.

And just like that, the group shifted back into motion — lifting bags, tossing cups, stretching limbs. The day was reclaiming them, gently but insistently.

Hotch stepped into view with clipboard in hand and his usual no-nonsense tone. “Jet’s ready. Wheels up in twenty.”

The team began to drift toward the SUVs.

Spencer opened the back door for her. Y/N slid in beside him without a word, and he followed — their shoulders close, movements quiet.

He didn’t pull out a book. She didn’t reach for her phone. Their silence was companionable, like something still echoing from the night before. Outside, the world sharpened by degrees — sunlight glinting, engines starting, radios muttering through cracked windows, the puddles sparkled in the sun.

And inside the SUV, the world went on, unaware that something had shifted — not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly, in a way that would be remembered later.

In the small, golden place between waking and forgetting.

[calebpups]

PAIRINGS. . . sylus x reader

CW. . . some fluff for the bday boy ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ꨄ

the lights were low, soft golden reflections dancing across the apartment like lazy fireflies, catching in the glass of half-melted candles and the slight shimmer of scattered birthday confetti neither of you had the heart to clean up yet.

the party was long over—or, more accurately, the quiet little celebration you’d thrown together with cake, flowers, and sylus’ favorite wine. now, the world had narrowed down to just this.

you were curled up in his lap, head resting against his shoulder, legs draped across his thighs like you belonged there—which, to be fair, you absolutely did. his arms wrapped around you securely, one hand tracing idle patterns on your thigh while the other rested just under your shirt, warm and possessive in the gentlest way.

“you’re quiet,” you murmured against his neck, voice thick with affection, wine, and the heavy lull of the evening.

sylus chuckled, breath ruffling your hair. “trying to keep it together.”

you shifted, lifting your head enough to meet his eyes. “keep it together?”

he looked completely gone—eyes half-lidded, lips tilted up in that lazy, crooked smile that always gave him away. his cheeks were flushed from the wine, looking wrecked—emotionally, maybe existentially—just from you. just from being so thoroughly loved.

“it’s like…” he let out a breathy, stunned laugh, brushing his nose against your temple. “i’m high off of you or something.”

you giggled. “love drunk?”

“love obliterated,” he corrected, eyes roaming your face like he still couldn’t believe you were real. “you threw me a birthday party. you made me a cake from scratch. you sang. you wore the sexiest dress you could find.” his voice dipped, teasing and reverent. “and now you’re in my lap, looking at me like that.”

your smile widened, smug. “are you overwhelmed?”

“devastated. destroyed. utterly ruined.”

you shifted again, just a little—enough to press your body more fully against him, watching the way his breath hitched as you hooked an arm around his neck. “and yet,” you whispered, “you’re still managing to keep your hands mostly where they belong.”

he gave you a look. “you think this is self-control?”

“baby, your hand’s under my shirt.”

“and it’s been there,” he shot back, grinning. “if i was going to be inappropriate on my birthday, it would’ve happened about five kisses ago.” he leaned in, brushing his lips against your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he wasn’t done worshipping you yet.

“you made today feel like a dream,” he whispered, voice low and aching. “and i’m scared to fall asleep in case i wake up and it’s all gone.”

you reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing the soft flush of his cheek. “sylus,” you breathed. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he closed his eyes, sinking into your touch like he could live there, like it was oxygen and he hadn’t breathed properly until you. “say it again.”

“i’m not going anywhere,” you repeated, gentler now. “you’re stuck with me.”

“best. gift. ever.”

you laughed, tipping your head back as he leaned in to kiss your neck. soft and warm, like he needed to ground himself in you, anchor the intensity of his affection before it consumed him.

“clingy baby,” you teased, even as your fingers slid into his hair.

“it’s my birthday,” he said matter-of-factly. “i get to be greedy.”

you melted, completely, and maybe he felt it because he wrapped his arms tighter around you, kissing the hollow of your throat, then your shoulder, then the side of your face again like you were the only thing that existed.

“i don’t deserve this,” he whispered.

“you absolutely do.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you. “then don’t stop spoiling me. ever.”

“never,” you promised.

“good,” he said, voice rough with everything he couldn’t quite say. “because i want every birthday to feel like this.”

you leaned in and kissed him then—slow, deep, a little messy with affection and wine and every sweet, sleepy thing you couldn’t find words for. and when you pulled away, your foreheads still touching, you grinned and whispered, “happy birthday, sylus.”

he smiled like he was about to cry. “best one yet.”

masterlist ⋆˚꩜ send me a kofi !

[ventique18]

"And now... A word from our batch Valedictorian."

The lights dimmed. The students waited with bated breath. The cameras panned to the center stage; millions of people around the world watching intently through its lens. The spotlights lit up, and out came...

Silence. And nothing else.

Three seconds... Five seconds... What was happening? A technical error?

Suddenly, a burst of fireflies erupted; hundreds of them, thousands of them, swirling in a show of green and gold as they slowly dimmed to a stark silver against the dark. Footsteps thudding against the long carpet were the only sound amongst the sea of tense silence. Confident, elegant, powerful. The world forgot to breathe under the sheer force of Malleus Draconia's unmatched presence as he strode through the entire length of the great hall's path; ignoring the stage's staircase meant to assist his mortal peers in their march. Instead, with a snap of his fingers resounding in the quiet, he built his own staircase of gold and glory at the very center.

The world gasped in admiration. Truly, no one but Malleus Draconia could captivate everything that breathes and thinks as much as he did. What a flawless display of power! That day would then go down in history as an impressive feat of theatrics, eclipsed only by the facts that allowed him to seize that stage in the first place: of written exams that never had a single point incorrect, of magical prowess never achieved by anyone else in academia, or of physical achievements that single-handedly toppled all written records in history. Such glory propelling his name to that of a legend, and yet nobody but you would ever know that on that day...

He was lazing around with you at Ramshackle's lounge, eating popsicles and rewatching the cartoon "Gargoyles" for the nth time. You were both still wrapped in PJs after a particularly long night discussing astronomy and the mathematics behind it and terminologies that frankly flew over your head. You wouldn't have realized something was wrong. Until you checked your phone and realized the date.

"... Hornton, isn't today your graduation day?"

And that was when he exploded into a cloud of rush and panic. He stood up, teleported his box of ceremonial outfit from his room at Diasomnia and into his arms, cursed wordlessly as he clambered into it, thanked you, kissed you goodbye, and vanished in a flurry of fireflies.

You scrabbled to flip the channel to NRC's graduation broadcast. And then there he was; so beautiful, so glorious, so much the perfect prince that he was. You would've forgotten that he was just some sleep-deprived guy mere minutes ago, if not for one detail that everyone would've missed except for you.

That, for a split second of a glimpse under his ceremonial robes, he was still wearing those adorable sorbet-patterned knit socks that matched yours.

[navybrat817]

Hollow

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky touches on memories from the past and wants to start a new tradition with you.

Word Count: Over 2.3k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected vaginal fingering, dirty talk, slight use of knife, established relationship, feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Fic #7 for Navy's Trick or Treat Nonsense! Newlywed Mob!Bucky won the poll.❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

A different side of Bucky came out when the leaves began to change. Subtle, but different. It wasn't noticeable to most since he showed people what he wanted them to see. It was a skill he perfected over the years, almost as if he wore a mask to hide his true self. What you saw, however, was ice in his eyes, the same that no doubt ran through his veins. Something weighed on his heart and mind.

You were determined to get to the bottom of it.

As his partner, it wasn't just your job to chase his demons away, but a need to protect him from whatever haunted or hunted him. You wanted to soothe him and let him know he wasn't alone. You knew if the roles were reversed that he'd eliminate anything or anyone that removed the light from your eyes. To have someone that loved you that much was still a bit of a dream.

How thin is the line between love and obsession?

“I can hear you thinking from here, Printsessa,” Bucky said. He knew you were watching him as he sat in his study, even as he focused on something else in front of him. He didn’t turn his back to anyone, except for you. He knew you would never put a knife in it. That was how much faith and trust he had in you. “Don’t want to join me?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” you replied, walking further into the room so you could get a better look at him. He had the sleeves of his button up shirt rolled up, giving you a moment to admire his metal left arm and the tattoos on the right. He commanded the room without standing.

“It's never an interruption if it's you,” he reminded you.

He twirled one of his signature knives between his fingers before he went back to work. The love of your life was an expert in many weapons, but had an affinity for knives. While it didn’t surprise you to find the head of the Bratva with a weapon in hand, you hadn’t expected to see a pumpkin in front of him. “Pumpkin carving? You’re just full of surprises.”

He snorted a little. “I like that I can surprise you.”

Watching him start to carve a pattern in the pumpkin with ease, his eyes narrowed in concentration and hand moving with care, was like a dance. He led with confidence and control. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

“Do you know why some people carve pumpkins?”

You finally took a seat beside him on the sofa, resting a hand on his thigh. His muscles relaxed and you wondered what had him so tense. “I think most do it today to decorate, but some do it to ward off evil spirits,” you said, moving your hand in slow, circular motions as he hummed in acknowledgement. “Is someone haunting you? Do I need to scare them away?”

He tilted his head, a glimmer of pride flickering in his blue eyes as he smiled. “You’d scare them away? You don't think I can handle them myself?”

“I have no doubt you could handle them on your own,” you said with complete certainty. He more than earned his Winter Soldier nickname. “But if something or someone is after you, I want to help.”

He studied you as he lowered his knife and covered your hand with his, holding it like a lifeline. Some protected and fought for him because it was their sense of duty. Others did so out of loyalty to his bloodline. You did it out of love.

Because you did love him.

“No one is after me. At least not today,” he assured you, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss it. “But thank you.”

“Then why are you holding my hand like you can't let go?”

The look he gave you melted your heart a bit. “Because I don't want to let you go.”

It was almost as if he was worried you'd bolt if he released you. The only time you'd run would be when you wanted him to chase you. Or maybe he imagined someone would try to take you away from him. He'd never let anyone get you. “What's on your mind then?”

And how do I help?

“My family,” he admitted, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “My mom used to carve pumpkins. I haven't done it in years.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. His family wasn’t a topic he discussed much, so you didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “Did she teach you how?”

A faint smile appeared and fell just as quickly. “She did,” he said, admiring his handiwork. “I thought it was strange at first, you know? Encouraging me to pull out the insides and leave it hollow. And to carve a face? It almost seemed like a form of torture. Probably why dad demanded I use a decent knife.”

He didn’t hide the hint of anger when he mentioned his dad. You turned your hand over so your palm connected with his, letting him squeeze it to ground him. “But that’s not why your mom did it. She was teaching you to do something beautiful instead of harmful.”

“That's exactly what she did,” he agreed, leaning forward to pick up the knife. “It also encouraged my critical thinking skills. You can’t just dive in without a plan. You have to think it through.”

Bucky sometimes teased that his best friend, Steve, was the man with a plan. The truth was, they both were. Each brilliant in their own way, there was a reason they stayed in power and why so many feared them.

“And I felt proud when she displayed them. Valued,” he continued, his voice a little choked up before he cleared his throat. “It was a tradition I didn't realize I missed.”

Maybe the nostalgia was the reason his eyes looked a bit colder in the fall. “Sounds like a beautiful memory,” you said.

“I hadn’t formed beautiful memories in years until you came along,” he said, his lips skimming your temple. “But you're my family now.”

Tears didn't fill your eyes, but you felt them in your throat. The man was ruthless when the occasion called for it. Terrifying in his rage. You were the lucky one who would never be on the receiving end of it. Only his love. His need. But you could take his rage if you had to.

Like his old memories, you could make it something beautiful.

“You're my family, too,” you told him. You hadn't expected that of Bucky when you met and part of you wanted to stay away from the dangerous world he helped rule, but how could you not want a life with him?

His gaze softened, which warmed your heart. “And I would feel very proud if you helped me finish this,” he said, moving further back against the cushion and opening his legs for you to sit between them. “Maybe it can be the start of our own tradition.”

Your heart raced as you stood up and took a seat on the edge of the cushion, exhaling as he pressed himself against you. “I’m not good at this,” you said, closing your hand around the handle as he placed the knife in it. You didn’t want to ruin the intricate design he already worked so hard on.

His warm breath tickled your ear as he whispered, “We’ll do it together.”

“Guide me?” You asked.

“Of course, Printsessa.”

At the root of everything, Bucky was a man who didn’t want to walk this earth alone. Power and money meant nothing if he didn’t have someone to share himself with. It would’ve left him as hollow as the pumpkins he worried about carving as a child. And if helping him finish this one would make him happy, you’d do just that.

Time passed as he helped you cut into the pumpkin and urged you to follow the stencil, the smell from the pumpkin seeds off to the side bringing a pleasant layer to Bucky's woodsy cologne. There was something intimate about him having you close, his hand directing where yours should go. Like when he taught you how to properly shoot a gun. He said you didn't need his help, but he gave it to you all the same.

Your hold almost slipped when his metal hand snaked between your thighs, softly rubbing your pussy through your underwear. It barely covered your mound, just like your flimsy nightgown. “How am I supposed to concentrate?” you asked, arching as he firmly pressed his palm against you.

“You asked me to guide you. I will,” he said, the light scratch from his scruff making goosebumps rise on your skin.

“You're distracting me,” you whispered, trying to keep your breathing nice and steady.

“Would distracting you be so bad?” he whispered back close to your ear. “We're almost done.”

His fingers gently played with your clit through the fabric, drawing a breathy sigh from you as you squirmed. His almost feathery touch made you all the more determined to finish up, especially since he refused to let you close your thighs to get any friction. You were on the edge of release and he was relentless in loving you.

But he didn't let you come.

“Good girl,” he praised once you finished carving, stopping his fingers as you set the knife down. You bit back a whimper as the rising pleasure faded. “It's beautiful.”

“It is,” you breathed. Instead of a smiling face you saw on so many pumpkins around Halloween, he designed a merged sun and moon. “It's us, isn't it?”

“It is,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before he gestured for you to hand him another knife. “You're my sun.”

“That makes you my moon,” you said, stiffening when you felt the blade at your shoulder. “What are you-”

Bucky sliced through your strap and kissed your bare skin. “I'm starting a new tradition,” he said, doing the same to the other side before he slid your nightgown down. He dragged the knife across your exposed breasts, taking great care not to cut you. “Carve a pumpkin. Cut your clothes off. Make you come.”

“You mean tease my pussy without getting me off,” you said without much bite.

He chuckled, a deep rumble as he set the knife aside. “I always get you off. I’m going to make you feel so good, Solynshko.”

With gentle kisses along your jaw and neck, his large hand slid up to fondle your breasts. The rough pads of his fingers teased your nipples as you gasped and reached back to grasp his hair. He moaned as you twisted your fingers in the strands, his hand sliding down to your wet heat again. Thankfully, he didn't tease you through the fabric this time. His fingers dipped into your underwear and you knew he was eager to feel your arousal.

Everything in your core tightened when he caressed your folds. You met his gaze as you tilted your head back, wanting him to see your desperation as his gaze darkened. “Make me come, please.”

“People beg me for money. Power. Mercy,” he said in a low voice, nuzzling your cheek as he sank a finger in, your walls contracting around him. “Not you. It's only pleasure you ask for.”

“It's you I'm begging for,” you admitted in a whisper. Even when you pushed or questioned why he wanted you of all people, you gave him your love. You yielded only to him and you would never bend your will for anyone else. To deny him would be to deny yourself.

He brushed his lips along your jaw and dipped another finger in as you shuddered. “You begging for me to fuck your pretty pussy with my fingers? Make you ruin this couch before I give you my cock?”

Your head fell back against his shoulder as you bit your lip. “Yes, I am. Ruin me. Love me,” you moaned.

“I love you more than anything,” he promised as your eyes slipped shut, dots of white dancing behind your eyelids.

He gripped your jaw to turn your head back to him, seeking out your lips with his. There was nothing tentative in the kiss, his ice meeting your fire and creating an explosion of need within both of you. Your body hummed as you felt the peak of your impending climax, ready for him to tear you apart.

“Come for me, Printsessa,” he demanded against your lips.

Your pussy clamped around his fingers as you lost yourself to the daze of your orgasm, shamelessly crying out his name. Your juices dripped down his fingers as he helped you ride it out, praising you in your ear and guiding you the way he did with the carving. He was telling the truth before: He always got you off.

“Are you okay?” you asked once you caught your breath, the question you meant to ask the moment you entered his study. He seemed more at ease, though lust now clouded his eyes.

“I'm okay,” he said in a rough voice, slowly pulling his fingers out as you sagged against him. He pulled you closer, enveloping you in his strong arms. It was safe. It was home. “But I think you need my cock.”

“I think I need it, too,” you smiled once you caught your breath, knowing his cock likely twitched in his pants as he tasted you on his fingers. “And you owe me a new nightgown.”

“I ordered you a new one before you came in here,” he said, his expression smug as you turned your head to stare at him. “Now sit on my cock. We have a long night ahead of us.”

“Bossy Pakhan,” you teased.

But if giving you orgasms, ruining your clothes, and making new memories brought the light back in his eyes, you wouldn't complain.

Oh, to belong to him. Love and thanks for reading! 🧡

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[moonsaver]

hesperus

The evening star calls home. Ruin is your saving grace.

Tw/Cw; Suggestive/explicit scene, gender neutral reader, implications of religious themes (not great), dubious morals(?), reader is a COUGARRRR (implied), Sunday loves older authority figures (guilty), just guess at this point. Also reader is implied to be like a parental figure to Firefly. OOC because i love making canon characters my own ocs.

Pairings: Stellaron Hunter!Reader x Sunday (romantic), (hinted) Firefly x tb, (platonic) Firefly x reader.

A/n: 5.8k words, i hate this fic, enjoy whatever whatever.

——

“Will you be okay?”

The small girl looks up at you - trepidation and concern visible in her eyes.

“I should be asking you that, lovely.” You smile, gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was beautiful, in your opinion. You often verbalized how beautiful it looked, mentioning it as silver under a blue moon.

Firefly still had concern in her eyes, dampened by your words, her hand clasped over the middle of her collarbone.

“I'll make it.. I think.” Her determination made way through uncertainty. You hum, smiling at her.

“You will, as shall I. If you ever need, I will be there.”

You wink, making the young girl smile a bit. The small, almost sad smile, still breaks through her worry.

“I've heard they've been on the lookout for us. I'm..”

She didn't have to continue. You already knew. Your hand comes up and pats her head, gently.

“We'll be fine. Go on, my sweet.”

You smile, softly. It seems to melt away the rest of her trepidation.

She takes a moment. Then nods. Worry and uncertainty now embers as determination fires through her eyes.

You wave her off, as she makes her way.

You are being watched. But you are aware.

–———

You hum, swirling the champagne glass in your fingers, watching the bubbles rise to the top, and stick to the edges in clusters.

“Interrupting your break, am I?”

The man beside you laughs, softly. Almost forced. He doesn't respond further.

“I'm guessing your weekends are spent tending to your white coat.”

You tilt your head, looking at him, a small smile playing on your lips. He doesn't bother acknowledging you.

“I give it to the dry cleaners, actually.”

“Ah, busy man. I suppose I should leave you be.”

“..I have an inkling you won't.”

His wings bristle slightly. His halo shines beautifully – a sort of warning that hangs over his head. Sharp edges, blinding gold. Angels crafted to deter the evil.

But you aren't phased. Perhaps it is the alcohol.

“There was a story, I remember. If you're up for it, of course. It's quite old.”

“Ah, an anecdote from your life?”

“I'm not an ancient tablet.”

“I wasn't aware.”

You chuckle, setting your glass down, the glass base clinking as you do.

You take a brief moment; simply to compose and immerse into the present moment. You look over at the man, allowing yourself to shamelessly scan him despite the unreturned glancing or staring.

“Owls and Ravens were once friends. And both had snow-like feathers. As pristine as white clouds on the expanse of a sky.”

His hair is soft, blue and hazy under the warm light of the bar, shimmering the slightest bit. He shifts in his seat, perhaps to get more comfortable.

“They decided, then, to paint each other, since nothing else was there to do. The Raven painted the Owl diligently, in patterns and dots. And the Owl sat patiently through the process.”

His eyes are piercing, golden, yet they rest, conserved and distant.

The alcohol hazed your vision, smoothing out the edges like a loving artist's strokes against the canvas of his visage.

Your fingers circle the rim of your glass, returning your gaze, watching the bubbles clear.

“But when the Raven's turn came, it never sat still. And as the Owl painted, it painted over the Raven entirely, marring it's feathers as black as obsidian.”

“What a shame.”

Your foot playfully taps the side of his, making his leg stop jittering up and down.

“Indeed.”

He hums, his gaze temporarily flitting from your foot to your hand, placed on your knee. He almost acknowledges you.

The background is a warm blur against your view of him, almost as though he's the sole performer on a podium – the light seemed to belong to him, and him only. 

“You have a daughter, am I correct to assume?”

His fingers tap, rhythmically, like patters of rain.

“No, just.. a friend. But I consider her as such.”

“She left in quite a hurry.”

“She did, didn't she?”

“has the dream not been to her liking? In the case something has gone awry, The Family hopes–”

“Oh, you know, kids these days. They see someone they like and skitter like a fool.”

He doesn't seem to take your words in stride. But you smile.

“I see.”

You stretch, spinning in the small loveseat, planting your feet down as you rise,

“See someone you like?”

“Already got a view.”

Sunday finally acknowledges you - his eyes trailing your form as you walk away.

——–

“I love you!”

The voice crackles from the plush toy's broken voice box, as Sunday peers down at it. He doesn't move – idly looking at it, and yet not bothering to pick it up.

He stares, for a few more moments, noting the grime and the tears at the seams. The small stains of probably candy or something sweet sticking to its “paws”. The bear had worn down inexplicably from love. The very love it spoke at every press. And from abandonment. He found himself wondering at the fleeting childhood passing by like a reeling ribbon from a child's hands, as if the bear had been dropped unwillingly, and had not been allowed to reunite with it's owner again. A strange dilemma – not alive, yet full of the most humanly feeling. So full, infact, the cotton burst at the seams, and it's button nose was dull. 

With careful movements, Sunday picks it up, by its collar behind its “neck” [if you could even say it had one]. His hand holds it at a bit of a distance.

“A fan of soft toys, Mr. Dreammaster?’

Your voice teases him. You watch his arm slightly falter, imagining a plethora of emotions on his face you'd love to pull at like strings of a tapestry falling apart.

“..I am the Head, of The Family. The Dreammaster would be–”

“It's alright. I was joking.”

“I wasn't.”

His voice is still, flat. There is no semblance of emotion.

“Feisty, today. Was your toy missing for a long time? Sour about how it looks, hm?”

Sunday breathes out; an amicable replacement for a drawn out sigh. He turns to you, still holding the bear at a distance, staying quiet.

“Now, that is no way to hold a gentleman.” 

You walk forward, and gently grasp the bear in both of your hands. Sunday's eyes flicker to your gloved hands, as though in his own curiosity of your lack of concern in terms of hygiene.

“There. Better. You ought to be respectful to your elders.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies. I should have bowed when you spoke to me.”

He bows slightly in jest, his hand on his heart,

“Hm, that's right.”

Sunday smiles, looking up at you from his bowed state. You seem to pay more mind to the bear in your hands, an array of similar thoughts in your head as you process it's appearance.

“Do you want to take it with you? Who knows, you might come to like it.”

“Please, that's no way to ask someone to get rid of it.”

You eye his non-faltering, feigned innocent smile. He simply closes his eyes and continues smiling.

“Well, turns out it has a nametag. It won't hurt to stitch it up a bit and return it back.”

He hums, watching you fix the bear's little dishevelled bowtie.

And then he clears his throat, catching your attention.

You tilt your head, curiously looking at him.

“Yes?”

Sunday points to his own tie, slightly miffed. You chuckle,

“Well, now. Whoever shall fix that?”

“Perhaps an elder. They know better than I.”

You roll your eyes, setting the bear down gently onto the side, removing your gloves and fixing his tie.

———

“Cozy, cozy.”

Kafka purrs into the phone, the rasp of her voice not blurred by the digital medium, as you stare in the distance at the blue-haired halovian.

“Kafka, I'm gonna have to call you back soon.”

“Just when things were about to get interesting..”

You roll your eyes – she can't see it, but she chuckles, knowing what your silence meant.

“Alright, goodluck. Looks like you'll need it.”

You hang up before she has anything else to say, pulling out a compact mirror, and adjusting your appearance. Just as you snap it shut, a small creak of the loveseat beside you indicates his occasional arrival.

“You're late. And I hoped a man of your stature was more punctual than that.”

You tease, watching his eyes never meet yours. Only this time – you catch it. He swallows, rather thickly, watching his adam's apple bob as he does. 

“I don't recall having scheduled any meetings with you.”

“Oh?”

His reply is curt, almost condescending if you weren't the type to brush it off.

“Seems my last story hasn't melted the ice yet.”

“Not an inch.”

“D'aw, alright. Wanna hear more, lovely?”

His wings – not his ears – twitch slightly at the pet name. You notice the faint rush of blood to the tip of his ears.

He doesn't answer, choosing to be chaste in silence. You huff out a chuckle,

“Alright, drink's on me then. I'll tell you something interesting.”

——

In your travels as a stellaron hunter, you've assorted many into repulsions and desires that draw you in.

To fast thrills, versus the indignancy of a dragging present. You find yourself drawn to the bright lights of a night bar, versus the blinding array of a scorching sun. To shallow connections in lieu of heavy and complex relationships. Attachment would be your downfall. Ruin is your saving grace.

However, you find yourself looking for your repulsions.

The grey haired girl stands in front of you once again, shuffling from foot to foot, her eyes low and shy as her hands fiddle with a stray lock of her own hair. You eye her for a moment, before humming, and gently coax  her to face you by placing an index finger under her chin and raising it up.

“Little bug, what's on your mind?”

“Um..”

“Script not to your liking?”

You watch her mumble under her breath, her face slightly tilting down as she resists the urge to tuck it away again. As she does, you gaze from over the top of her head; a familiar blue haired man walking into the distance, followed by panicked coworkers. It seems he will be amiss once again, for today.

“I couldn't.. tell them.”

“The trailblazer?”

She hums, nodding.

You huff out a chuckle, patting her head.

“You have your chances, do you not? Rest easy, your time will come.”

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slightly dropping, and her hands leaving the lock of hair to return to her sides. Her eyes are still low, as though scanning the pavement under your feet, as she contemplates. You watch her bite the inside of her cheek before she raises her face again and nod.

There is a fire in her eyes.

It is almost like the Sun.

You are almost afraid of it.

“I'll do it. As many times as I need to.”

You smile, leaning back onto the cold wall behind you.

“We should go shopping after your next attempt.”

You find your jaw clenching after the words slip from your mouth. Your repulsions are your weakness. Yet you still seem to subconsciously seek them out. It's a testament to your human nature.

She nods, smiling at you. She stays in her place for a moment, before she speaks again,

“I could.. ask Kafka to go with you if I don't make it.”

You turn and glance back at your usual spot at the open bar‐empty without you and the man you've been missing lately. Your smile only widens at her perception. Clever girl.

“No need. I'd like some silence anyways.”

She seems a bit unconvinced, as she continues to gaze at you for a brief moment more, scanning you for any deception. Out of worry than any ulterior motives, unlike the woman she mentioned a while ago.

Truthfully, you were lonely. This is what your ruin does to you, regardless of how it saves you. A few conversations lure you into a false sense of companionship, regardless of however brief it must have been, even encouraging you to divulge more than necessary if desperate enough. You find your eyes flitting at anything the colour of pale blue. At anything that glows gold under a light.

You chuckle and wave,

“I'll be fine, honeybee. Go, be on your way, now.”

She nods, smiling at the pet name. 

You find your repulsions carry you elsewhere, the bar fading into the background as you walk the opposite direction, once all spying eyes have cleared. You find your eyes flitting to find him. However, no matter how blessed your vision may be, the absence left behind can only be described, not pointed to. Ultimately, it is your mind that hinges on the assessment of what you have lost, or gained. 

But it seems this time your heart has taken the hit – a burrowing feeling between the slats and the depths of your ribs as though an animal had sprung from it, and left it behind as a husk of what it once was. 

–——

Sunday tuts, his fingers taking a bold graze of your hair, sliding and gently tugging out a lock.

“You ought to take better care of your hair.”

You stay silent for a brief moment, and it's apparent to him aswell that you hadn't expected him to do something so.. casual, considering his formalities. He takes his time to address it in your period of silence.

“I simply noticed and commented on it, no need to look like a deer caught in headlights.”

His eyes flicker to yours for a moment, and avert immediately. You watch his hand fall to his side, his fingers slightly shaking. You can't tease him on it – it would be hypocritical. A slight, excited sort of feeling sparks in your stomach.

You lick your lips, and take a sip of your beverage, feeling your senses dry up a bit. The liquid instead burns at the dryness of your throat.

“You're into haircare, hm?”

You reply, ignoring the brief silence and the tension it carried.

“Often. It comes with taking care of my wings.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence once again. Unlike the pleasant one you two usually shared, this felt different; it felt electric. Thick, a bit suffocating. 

“I like your piercings.”

His hand, previously resting on the counter, subconsciously raises up to fiddle with his earring,

“Thank you.”

You stay silent again, almost inviting in the tension that causes him to graze his teeth against the inside of his cheek, a step away from chewing on the sides of it.

You break the ice first.

“Do you prefer gold or silver?”

“Silver.”

He stays silent for a moment. He's often found his mind wandering when it comes to you – wondering how various adornments would suit you.

“Really? Didn't take you as a silver type.’

“Ah, about me?”

“Who else?”

He felt silver suited you; more than your complexion, he simply felt.. drawn to it. Like the faint glimmering of a moon's reflection on a lake. You were someone who's depths were mysterious, almost alluring to him.

You stay silent, too. The question hangs in the air for a brief moment.

You watch his shaky fingers rub slightly at his nose. You've noticed a lot of things about him. The tips of his nose and ears that turns red a bit too easily. The faint fluttering of his ghostly blue lashes. The twinkle of gold – not just of his halo, but the various imprints of it on him; jewellery, and the woven golden threads of his pristine suit.

His eyes follow to your hand, on the bar's countertop, swallowing thickly again.

It seems despite everything, he's still a fool in the grasp of his shame.

He looks away,

“I prefer gold.”

——

Sentience is a curse, he thinks.

His fingers tap and circle the perimeter of the frail glass, a clink accompanying each one. Waves form on the surface of the shimmery liquid from the small force.

Morality is a cruel beast. Because it is unrecognisable. And it knows you.

It follows you, through your ages. A small, ghastly and putrid thing, akin to a shameful, big animal. Hunched over, following you like a chore. Like a lost, stubborn child. It grows with you. It becomes bolder. It becomes aware. It has your voice. Soon, the mind caves and buckles into the grasp of the dastardly beast, that grows like uncontrolled weed on a substrate. It grows and envelops. And it tells you – can you truly allow yourself to do this? And the answer is never yes. Morality is a curse. A big ugly thing, unafraid to show it's face. It fills the room when silence staves arguments in the form of chastened tension.

Yet he finds himself, almost seeking it out. Searching the cruel shackle of his morality, almost wanting it to shame him into hiding. 

Your place is empty. He notes. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, fluttering lashes coming to a halt. He envisions the faint waft of your perfume, the dainty clicking of your fingers over the rim of the glass, the cheeky tap against his agitated foot. Sunday would find himself already ashamed, if he'd outright admitted he'd actually been staring at you, from his periphery. You overshadow the ugly beast, drawing out a sort of soft, beautiful serenity with a hollow voice, and an elusive persona. 

Angels are, by design, made to stave evil. Somehow, however, it seems he has attracted one. A devil in the form of you. And yet, like a man yet to feel the cold relief of forgiveness on his lips, he wanders aimlessly in his mind, as though in search of you. Sin is unbeknownst, ignorance is plaguing, and yet he revels in it. Even for a moment.

He huffs out a laugh. A novel turn of events. Its his turn to wait for you, isn't it?

Yet it seems easy to do, simply imagining your form beside him once again, telling him another strange tale, either for your own amusement or to reel him in. He disregards the source. His weary face finds an ache, a pleasant one, as it pulls into a faint smile. 

As sentience drives a being to deviate from instinct, his awareness has driven him to exhaustion. Yet you are a double edged sword – a balm for his exhaustion yet endlessly pushing him to caution.

——

“You've been gone too long, haven't you?”

You croon, a cheeky smile on your face, Sunday bashfully keeping his eyes locked to his drink. Despite everything, he cannot meet your eyes.

“I have.”

For the first time, the pastor is of the guilty. The devil has come to exorcise him. But exorcism does not mean erasure of sins, neither does it mean cleanly cutting off the strings that attach one to them. You may as well weave more of these strings, and craftily ground him to you.

“How will you make it up to me?’

You drawl, leaning on the palm of your hand, speech slightly slurred from the alcohol.

“..How would you like me to?”

His gaze is trained on his hand – gripping the fragile neck of the glass with a bit too much force. 

You hum, twirling your own glass, watching the liquid rush and bubble at the edges.

“Tell me a secret.”

He swallows. 

A secret?

“Is that.. truly what you desire?”

“Mhm.”

You take a sip of your beverage. Sunday is relieved, yet almost disappointed.

“..very well.”

He breathes in, and takes a moment to compose himself. His eyes flit to you, a small flicker of boldness somehow making him hover over a line he dares not cross. His gaze wanders to your lips, the slight crinkle beside your eyes, the squish of your cheek against your palm. He eyes your clothing. 

A stellaron hunter.

It was as though he was placing himself as the bait in a trap. As though he was the one caught in the trap. What else could he complain about? Except for that of which he can't admit – his unbecoming is his fault.

His fault for unreeling like a ribbon under your daft fingers. He finds himself wanting to spill like an ink bottle, the surface tension of the liquid keeping it from just flowing over the thick, glass borders.

And he breathes in your perfume. He breathes in the expanse of the night's air. And he spills. He spills so cautiously, so quietly, as though he is afraid of staining his own lips with the tenacity of his words.

He has many secrets. Most of which were handed to him, more akin to an heirloom than an actual personal matter. More akin to a treacherous contract than whispered confessions. How he wishes this was a confession to you, than an unveiling over his disgusting innards.

But you listen, unwavering. A lazy smile still gracing your lips, stained with grapes and understanding. It is as though you were stained in so many ways, his words are unflinchingly simple to you. It becomes a confession, rather than a revelation at the altar of the cartilage shell of your ear.

And you keep it. You keep it like a lost prayer. Like a silent vow. 

“..want me to whisper it to you?”

You return the sentiment, offering a request. It seems you are no guiltier than he innocent. 

———

“Can't convince you, can I?”

“Not at all.” Please don't try, anyway. He lets those words die on his tongue.

You huff out a laugh, a bit forceful, as you look away from him, folding your arms.

“Shit, you don't pull any punches, huh?”

A pang of guilt hits him at the slight hurt in your forced laugh. But he can't be deterred.

Not that you were going to, considering Elio's script. It's on you, really. But you didn't expect it to actually hurt.

You watch the empty audience seats, his back turned to it.

“It's a pity. I wish I could have seen this theatre when it was filled to the brim with people.”

“..it would have been an extraordinary view. It always is.”

“You look forward to it?”

…

“Not anymore.”

You hum, your teeth nipping at the skin of your lips. The quietness of the theatre is exemplified at the rustle of your clothes, as you turn to look at his back. The light of the podium makes him look beautiful. His halo is almost blinding. He looks like the Sun. You'll be lead to your death, at this rate. Wasn't Ruin supposed to be your saving grace? Here you are – disguised as both Icarus and the blinding Sun.

Sunday stands still, a cleancut form, unable to face you. You can stare at his back all day. But the pain resounding in your chest from your heart hurting strings you back into the present. You breathe deeply, and sigh,

“Alright. Goodluck, then.”

With one step forward, you disappear as quietly as you came. It's a trick familiar to your group; as Sunday knows. But even then, he braces himself to greet the empty space you leave behind, his heart sinking further at the loss of your presence. 

———

Sunday finds the shackles of punishment more liberating than death on his knees.

He learns this in isolation. He learns many things in isolation.

He learns how to miss you.

Phantoms and taunts of your words echoing the empty expanse of his empty mind, wafting through the many whispers of the stellaron that plagued his mind. 

His finger twitches upwards, when his lifeless eyes imagine the faint illusion of your affection, grazing fingertips over his knuckles. You hadn't actually ever gotten so physically close to him, but he indulges himself. He imagine the soft sensations of your lips on his jaw, trailing up to ghost the shell of his.

“Miss me, Mr. Dreammaster?”

He shivers at the illusion. Your voice is close yet far; reverberating in the hollow wasteland of his mind like a single thread of gold.

A lot. He wants to say. He swallows the words, and for the second time, the fruit lodges in his throat. To admit is to acknowledge the sin.

“Make it up to me, Mr. Dreammaster?"

A knock. Your phantom, agonisingly so, vanishes like a mist casted away by a gush of wind. But the interruption is far from divine.

Jade, from the IPC. 

——

Like gently settling fog, rumours stagnate over a crowd. The whispers and the hushed words are not elusive to your ears.

Your phone buzzes, but you ignore it. Firefly is accompanied by Silver wolf, you wouldn't have to worry.

As much as your thrills lure you to the lavish party to celebrate the Nameless, your repulsions seem stronger. 

You sip your beverage, tipping the glass up, but your eyes stay on your phonescreen. You hadn't ever texted Sunday, and neither had he texted you. You two hadn't even called. There was no history. It would be as though you could keep your phone open for hours and no one would bat an eye. Even for the most prestigious of those in stature would have to occasionally practise patience when it came to him. Who would you be? The vague, elusive stellaron hunter who's suspected of causing trouble wherever they go? Like a stray piece of pebble that's easy to disregard and kick away, who is he to ever glance at you?

And so you stare, measuring in silence, the strange stirring of feelings in your stomach. You could blame it on your beverage, but you hadn't drank enough really, mainly because you couldn't even bother keeping it down.

Buzz

You blink, watching a notification pop up, and promptly retreat as you click on Sunday's contact again.

He messaged you?

No, it couldn't be. It must be one of The Family's members.

You push yourself off of the wall you'd been warming with your back, and take a small step forward in contemplation, your eyebrows knitted as you stared.

Why would they send you to his office's location?

——

Sunday breathes in, the cool, familiar air of his office hitting the back of his throat as he does.

There is a certain pleasure in ordinary things. 

The patience of a ceramic cup that stays warm with coffee. The smooth crafting of the surface of a wooden desk. The ambience of the air conditioner accompanying the steady scribbling of a pointed tip on paper. The comfort in reclining back in a cushioned office chair. Things he may as well soon never come across again.

He swallows, his eyelids doing little to shield the overhead lighting of his office, but still keeping them closed to simply savor the feeling.

A shadow emerges, obscuring the light from his eyes, casting a shade on his face. It's soon accompanied by the faint wafting of perfume.

“Miss me, Mr. Sunday?”

This wasn't Ena's dream. But for a moment, he could have considered it.

You're leaned over from behind him, watching down at his face as he opens his eyes. He opens his mouth, but decides to stay silent.

Your hand comes up to gently cup the side of his face, your palm pressing beside his eye, fingers reaching the bottom of his chin. Your thumb lingers around the edge of his mouth. You both stare at each other, simply noticing the dilation of each other's pupils.

“It's just Sunday.”

He tells you. There is no animosity, no hostility in his voice. It's almost a whisper, as though he's unsure if you are real. His own hand reaches up, and cautiously, his fingers graze the side of your face.

Your skin is warm. Your relaxed smile widens as he does so. He shivers.

“Savouring your final moments?”

He smiles.

“I am.”

You stay that way for a moment, before slowly leaning back and standing up straight. Sunday gets up from his chair and moves to stand across you.

“Couldn't let me know where you were a little earlier?”

You tease him, but he can sense the slight irk in your voice.

“My deepest apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

You hum, spinning on your heel and walking around his office, fingers grazing the edge of his desk as you walk beside it, and to the front. You turn, leaning on it, your back facing him.

“A secret won't be enough this time, y'know?”

He watches your hand fiddle with a few trinkets on his desk, your other hand supporting you. He makes his way to you again, rounding the desk, and stands in front of you,

“What may help?”

You hum again, but he knows better. You're feigning your contemplation.

You smile, still leaned back against his desk.

“I wouldn't know. Something special before we depart?”

“Hm.. is that so?”

He steps closer, his hands placing themselves right beside your waist on the desk behind you, caging you in. His eyes never leave yours.

“Mhm.”

You smile, looking at him.

He leans in, eyes falling lower, on your lips, as he asks,

“Now, what shall I do?”

His warm breath fans over the lower half of your face, and the small exposed bits of your collarbone.

“Perhaps do as your seniors advise you.”

“Hm? Who?”

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, push off of the table and swerve him, pushing him against the desk as you lean in,

“You can listen, can't you?”

He breathes in, slightly winded at the switched positions.

“I might need guidance.”

You huff out a laugh,

“I'll guide you, so listen well.”

You lean in, your lips almost brushing his, but pull away when you sense he might lean in, his lips stay slightly parted as he watches you.

“You need to be patient, okay?”

He almost doesn't hear you, swallowing as he eyes your lips, his abdomen constricting, feeling something tighten and coil.

“I will.”

You smile. And lean in, testing his resolve,

“Do as I say, alright?”

His lips twitch, and his breath hitches. He waits, agonisingly, as your lips brush against his, but don't press. He whispers out,

“I will.”

.

“Good.”

You finally press your lips against his, and it's as though a river rushes through his veins, as he eagerly kisses you back. His breathing is heavy, his hands unsure as they hold onto your waist, but you're made aware of his desperation as his nails unconsciously dig into your flesh, through the thin fabric of your shirt. You suck in a breath at the feeling, and he almost moans, his wings bristling and tensing as he desperately tries to deepen the kiss, almost panting into it as your tongue brushes against his lower lip, eagerly parting them open.

Sunday can taste the alcohol mixed with your sweet saliva, causing his head to spin a bit, but instead he presses further, his tongue eagerly lapping at every inch of your mouth. You pull away for a moment, but his mouth follows close, kissing the side of your mouth and trailing them down the column of your throat. You breathe in, shivering as you close your eyes for a moment, each wet kiss electrifying and going straight down to your core. 

He mumbles your name against your skin, his tongue laving at a spot before his teeth nip at it, causing you to gasp. Your hands crawl up to the base of his head, one pushing into his fluffy hair and fingers entangling within the strands.

“It's okay.”

You breathe out, but he shakes his head slightly.

His tongue presses against the base of your throat, and drags up all the way to the corner of your mouth, before his lips envelop yours again in a heated kiss. He parts, panting,

“I wanted to see you. Every second I spent there..”

His hands run up and down your sides, feverish at the contact they'd been restrained from,

“I know.” You say, looking at his dishevelled state, your hands coming to rest on his chest.

"I wanted to return to you."

You feel his hands slide down and rest on your hips, his knee nudging between yours, before he slides up further and pushes his thigh at your core, making you jolt for a moment at the contact. His hands stay firm on your hips, almost pressing you down onto his thigh. Your hands clench at the fabric of his shirt as the contact shoots up your spine, making you arch slightly into him.

He breathes in, leaning down, his lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath coming out in puffs as he whispers,

“I'm yours, aren't I? So go ahead and prove it.”

You smile.

“Alright, then.”

–——

“[Name]!”

Firefly's voice calls out to you, and you smile, looking over her winded appearance.

But you weren't in the state to complain. You looked similar, if not even worse. Your shirt was slightly wrinkly, tie askew, your hair patted down in a rush. You hope no one noticed you wobble.

“are you okay?”

Firefly would be more worried instead of confused if not for the wide smile you've donned. She glances over her shoulder at the bustling crowd, her eyes almost searching for someone, before returning to you.

“I'm alright. Your hair.. seems exciting.”

You comment, and Firefly blushes, patting down her own hair.

“I'll tell you what happened later, but.. we should leave now.”

You nod,

“Silverwolf?”

Her hologram appears without a second's delay, her annoyed resting face almost lovingly familiar to you.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard.”

You both chuckle slightly at her.

The party ends on a positive note.

———

“Quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Greetings, to you too.”

You smile, your virtual form glitching slightly. Although Himeko doesn't disregard you as she does Kafka, she's still wary of you, as are the rest of the crew.

“Settling in well, chicken boy?”

Himeko cuts in,

“What do the Stellaron hunters need now?”

You chuckle, softly,

“Miss Himeko, it's been a while, hasn't it? Regardless, I sincerely apologise, but these questions are solely for Mr. Sunday here.”

Her face shifts, almost unnoticeable, clearly displeased by your words. She sighs, and glances back at the new recruit. The rest of the crew follow her suit.

Mr. Yang's voice flows in,

“Perhaps there remains any unfinished business with the stellaron hunters? It would be wise to address it sooner than later.”

“None of the sort, Mr. Yang.” You reassure, hands neatly folded, as you smile,

“Just a few, simple questions. Think of it as a.. survey, of sorts.”

“A survey?”

Sunday steps forward, facing your hologram directly. You would have blushed if it wasn't virtual.

“3 questions. That is all.”

“..alright.”

You sense his hesitation, slowly melding into trust as his thoughts process. Although relationships between your factors are complex and messy, it is you that's asking him.

“What is your name?”

“..I am Sunday.”

“Where are you stationed?”

“The Astral Express.”

“Are you happy?”

The question makes him hesitate, words stuck in his throat like a grape seed for only a moment.

“..yes. i am.”

You smile. Sunday faintly returns the expression. After a brief moment, you turn to Himeko,

“Kafka will speak to you shortly, Ms. Himeko.”

And you vanish. Just as mysteriously as you'd come into his life.

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Birthday Boy

Pairing :Seth Clearwater x Male reader fandom : Twilight Tags: Established relationship, Fluff. Softness Word count :1364

The old wooden porch swing creaked a gentle lullaby as Y/N nudged it with his Converse-clad foot, the rhythmic sound a comforting constant on the balmy summer evening. He leaned back against the faded floral cushions, the heady perfume of honeysuckle from his mother's rampant garden vines thick in the air. His birthday had been pleasant ,  But this… this quiet moment with Seth, as the sky bled from fiery orange to a deep indigo, felt like the best part of the day.

Y/N stole a glance at Seth, who was practically buzzing beside him, a human hummingbird. Seth's knee bounced with a restless energy only partially contained, his hands fidgeting in his lap, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his worn jeans. His usually tanned face was flushed with a sweet, endearing pink that Y/N found utterly Adorable. He couldn't help the teasing smile that tugged at his lips.

"You gonna vibrate right off the swing, Seth?" he drawled, his tone laced with affectionate amusement. "What's got you so jumpy? Did you have too much cake?"

Seth's head snapped up, his wide, chocolate-brown eyes, usually so open and guileless, met Y/N's with a startled blink. He visibly swallowed, the movement of his Adam's apple exaggerated in the dim light. "Uh, nothing! Just… enjoying the swing. Nice night, right?" He offered a smile, but it was a shaky, unconvincing thing, and his eyes darted away.

Y/N raised a skeptical eyebrow. He knew Seth far too well to buy that flimsy excuse. Ever since the… imprint. Ever since the world had shifted on its axis, and Seth had become irrevocably, undeniably *his*, there was a profound transparency to the younger wolf's emotions. Trying to hide something from Y/N was like trying to contain the tide with a sandcastle.

"Right," Y/N chuckled softly, turning his gaze back to the vista of darkening trees and firefly-dotted fields. He let the silence stretch, savoring Seth's internal struggle.

Seth shifted uncomfortably beside him. "Okay, okay, you got me. I have… something for you." He blurted out, his voice a little too loud in the stillness.

Y/N turned back, anticipation sparking inside him. "Oh? And what *might* that be?" He asked, his voice playful. He already felt a warmth bloom in his chest. Seth's thoughtfulness, his eagerness to please, was just one of the countless things he adored about him.

Seth plunged his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small, intricately woven bracelet. It was crafted from supple, dark brown leather, braided with thin, shimmering strands of silver. Dangling from the braid was a single, detailed wolf charm, its miniature silver fur catching the fading light and making it gleam. 

Y/N's breath hitched in his throat. It was beautiful

"Wow, Seth," he breathed, reaching out to gently take it. "This is… incredible. Did *you* make this?" He ran a finger over the smooth, cool leather.

Seth's blush deepened, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He nodded, his gaze fixed on the bracelet as Y/N turned it over in his hands, admiring the intricate details. "Yeah. I… I spent a while on it. Leah helped me with the braiding, she's way better at that kind of stuff than I am." He added, almost defensively. "I wanted it to be… special."

"Special" didn't even begin to cover it. Y/N ran his thumb over the smooth curve of the wolf charm. "This is…amazing." He looked up at Seth, his heart swelling with a tenderness that almost overwhelmed him. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Seth's nervous energy seemed to abate slightly, replaced by a shy, hopeful expression. "Here," he said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, as he reached out and gently took the bracelet from Y/N. "Let me." He carefully took Y/N's wrist and fastened the bracelet, his fingers brushing against Y/N's skin and sending a pleasant shiver dancing up his arm. His touch was surprisingly delicate, a stark contrast to his usual boisterous energy.

As he secured the tie, his brow furrowed in concentration, Seth explained, "The wolf… it's kind of a stand-in for me," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. "It's… it's a reminder."

Y/N swallowed hard, his throat suddenly feeling tight. He reached out and gently cupped Seth's cheek, his thumb caressing the soft, smooth skin. "Seth," he said, his voice soft and full of emotion, "you didn't have to do this. Buying me some gas station candy would have been a great gift too. But… thank you. I'll think all you whenever I look at it."

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken feelings. Seth's eyes widened slightly, his breath catching in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, closing it again with a nervous click of his teeth. His internal battle was palpable, almost radiating off him in waves.

Y/N knew what was coming. He'd felt it brewing between them for months, a slow, steady grow of affection.

He leaned closer, his forehead lightly touching Seth's. "It's okay, Seth," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "You can say it. It won't bite."

Seth's hand came up to cover Y/N's, his fingers intertwining with his. 

"Y/N," he began, his voice trembling slightly as he finally gave voice to the emotions churning within him, "I… I think… No. I *know* I… I love you."

Y/N smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes , He squeezed Seth's hand, his heart overflowing with a love he hadn't even dared to imagine before Seth had crashed into his life like a furry, over-enthusiastic tidal wave.

"I love you too, Seth," he whispered,

The relief that washed over Seth's face was almost tangible. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He leaned in closer, closing the remaining distance between them, and pressed his lips to Y/N's in a soft, tentative kiss.

When they finally broke apart, they were both smiling, their eyes shining with happiness. The porch swing continued its gentle creak, a soothing soundtrack to their shared intimacy.

"Happy birthday," Seth murmured, his voice still slightly shaky with residual nerves.

"Best birthday ever," Y/N replied, leaning his head comfortably against Seth's shoulder. 

Seth spoke up quietly after a peaceful moment of silence, " I'm glad that you like the bracelet." His voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Y/N answered with a playful squeeze of Seth's hand, "It's the best gift that anyone has ever given me, hands down. You got good taste, Seth." Before he snuggled more into Seth's side, pretending to be a cat, and let out a theatrical yawn.

Seth noticed his sleepy state and asked, his voice laced with concern, "Tired?."

Y/N hummed in response

Seth responded, "I should probably get going then, it's getting late. You need to get some sleep, birthday boy."

Y/N mumbled out a sleepy, "Stay." 

"I can't stay here all night", Seth responded, with a nervous laugh. "I will see you tomorrow though, I promise."

Y/N made a pouty face, and gave Seth a sad look. It worked every time.

Seth gave in quickly, "Fine, I will stay for five more minutes, and then leave. Okay?"

Y/N perked up instantly at the concession, his previously drooping face now radiant with mischief. "Okay, five minutes" Before Seth could protest, Y/N grabbed him and snuggled up more tightly against him, burying his face in the crook of his neck, a giant, triumphant smile plastered on his face.

The five minutes flew by in a blur of comfortable silence and shared warmth, before Seth reluctantly announced, "Okay, I *really* need to go now. Seriously."

Y/N whined in protest, a low, drawn-out "Noooo" that vibrated against Seth's skin.

"I promise, I will see you tomorrow, okay? First thing." Seth tried to reassure him, running a hand through Y/N's hair.

Y/N let out a dramatic sigh, feigning exhaustion. "Okay, I will see you tomorrow."

Seth leaned down and gave Y/N a lingering goodnight kiss before pulling away “ see you tomorrow”

[animasola86]

F o r g e t f u l 🎀 2 / 4

Mistress takes you to a very special night out, reminding you of your place in your unique relationship as she pushes you right into the center of attention.

a dominant woman X a submissive girl with a memory problem

WARNINGS: F!Reader-insert! NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mistress/pet. Domme/sub. Manipulation. Gaslighting. Praise kink. Dubcon elements. Humiliation. Exhibition(ism). Bondage. Dildo gag. Blindfold. Public groping. Forced orgasm. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 5.5k

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

The ride in the back of the car is a blur. You sit next to Mistress, her hand between your thighs as she fingers you lazily, her eyes fixed through the window, away from you, and you're just a toy to play with, to pass the time as the car weaves through the busy streets, the driver not saying a word, oblivious or used to whatever happens behind him.

She makes you clean her fingers afterward, after edging and teasing you, and you seem to know the drill. You can't come unless she tells you to. It's a heavy thing in the back of your mind, engraved in your brain, and while you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the urge to let go, you let her handle you like that, because it's her right, isn't it?

Your mind is still hazy, filled with a strange kind of cotton that pushes on any thought that may come in the way, of protest, of confusion, of fear and shame. Those flicker up, occasionally, like fireflies, only to be squashed by something else, by the dizzy spell making your head spin, the throbbing heat in your stomach, the tension in your muscles, whenever she touches you. It doesn't matter then, it's only her fingers under your coat, on the little sliver of skin as she guides you through a crowd of people, the warmth of her body next to yours, her dominating presence as she meets strangers and talks to them, smiling, all professional, and you're just a girl beside her, small and unassuming, or so you think.

The lights are bright as you enter the building, warm air hits your face, makes you blink. Someone takes your coat, her hand is around yours as she pulls you along, the sound of your heels echoing through the vast room. Confusion fights through the fog in your head as you turn your gaze this way and that, finding strangely familiar sights in front of your hazy eyes.

You're in a gallery of some sort, a giant room sectioned off into smaller rooms, high ceilings vanishing into darkness, low hanging lights getting dimmer the further you go. There are large prints on the walls, but you can't quite make out what they portray yet. People wearing elegant dresses and expensive looking suits stand in clusters in front of them, holding champagne flutes, talking amongst themselves. Some turn their heads to you when you pass, a strange expression on their blurry faces.

You follow Mistress, her hand tight around yours, your heart beating faster. She guides you through various rooms, all filled with large photographs spanning the walls and people in front of them, and it's when you reach the last room, where the lights are slightly different, that you notice what they show.

It's you.

Similar motifs like you've found in your roommate's desk, pictures of your body, your holes, your glassy eyes, your lips strained around a gag, your hands bound behind your back, your skin marked by intricate rope patterns. You feel the heat rushing into your cheeks, your ears, your entire head flares up in shame as you realize that you're not just her muse (for her to take pictures of she can enjoy on her own, hidden away in her room), but a canvas for every single person in this city and beyond to marvel at.

You feel sick, your stomach cramping up badly as you squeeze her hand, your own shock fighting to get past the cotton in your head. This can't be happening. Your eyes flicker over the groups of people standing in front of blown up pictures of your cunt, stuffed with various toys and items, a whole wall full of unflattering close-ups that lead into a full body shot of you tied to a bed, wrists and ankles held by cuffs, arms and legs spread, as thin metal chains hang from the ceiling, attached to the little clamps that are holding your nipples and your pussy lips.

You ache just looking at it, your breasts tensing up. Your gaze wanders further, to the next wall, this one dedicated to your ass and various things being shoved into it. You feel like crying, and it gets only worse when you realize there are TV screens mounted between the pictures. While the photos show a moment captured in time, the screens show videos of how those moments came to be: you see the white-gloved hand and how it moves various objects in and out of your holes, a sickening motion, in and out, and you notice there's even sound, overlapping moans and whines and lewd squelching noises, echoing from a total of six TVs arranged around the room.

Your stomach drops, your throat tensing up, you can barely breathe. And the people in the room seem to realize that it's you who is being portrayed like this, and they stare at you, some with neutral looks, some leering and excited, some with disapproving or arrogant scowls. You press closer to Mistress as she stops in the middle of the room. She looks at you then, a soft smile on her face. You feel like fainting, it's all too much, but then she reaches her free hand up to caress your warm cheek, and you freeze, staring at her, the panic in your head pausing under the touch.

“What's the matter, pet?” she whispers. “Don't be shy now, you're a star, my dear,” she adds, leaning down to brush her lips against your ear. “They are all here for you. Just for you...”

You frown slightly, trying to focus on her instead of the noises around you, the sounds coming from the TVs, the chatter and laughter and hushed whispers. Your heart is beating in your throat, right against the tight collar, your muscles clenching around the plug and around nothing, your body seemingly adjusting to your surroundings while your mind still fights whatever is going on here. You cling to the tall woman in front of you, your eyes pleading her to take you back, take you away, stop this humiliation.

But she only tilts her head, her thumb moving along your bottom lip, before she says something that makes you freeze, both in shock and in the strangely familiar urge to please.

“On your knees.”

And you do as you're told. Of course you do. You go down, perched on the balls of your feet with your heels pressing into your rear, and you square your shoulders and fold your arms behind your back, pushing your chest out, looking up at her with your eyes glazing over and your mind going empty.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my dear guests,” Mistress then raises her voice, her gaze still fixed on you as she addresses the people around you. “Welcome to another night of sinful sensations, tantalizing touches, unknown urges and frivolous fun. Please gather around, don't be shy,” she adds, finally looking away from you and around the room, beckoning the strangers closer, her arms spread wide as she smiles her beautiful smile. “The show will begin shortly. My assistants will bring you an assortment of objects, and I ask you to choose one each, and wait your turn. Oh and don't forget to take a pair of gloves, we don't want to leave any compromising evidence, now do we?”

She laughs, and several people join in, while you kneel before her, focusing on her, trying to ignore the shuffle around you. Your heart is thundering in your chest, your head spinning out of control. And despite the humiliating nature of whatever is happening, you feel your arousal drenching your underwear, a sticky slick that rivals the hot tears burning in your eyes. Your chest rises and falls as you breathe rapidly through your nose, your lips pressed into a thin line to keep them from trembling.

The hand on your elbow startles you, but it's only Mistress as she urges you into a standing position again. She gives you a gentle nod, and you follow on shaking legs as she walks to a strange contraption in the middle of the room, some sort of bench in an X-shape, right in the center, surrounded by the pictures of you, by the videos of an anonymous hand shoving phallic objects into your holes, the sounds that echo from the screens pointed directly at you, a weird garbling of moans and helpless cries, overlapping in a disorienting fashion.

A horrible vertigo grips you as you stumble forward, gently pushed by the woman behind you, and before you know it, you end up lying on your back, a soft cushion beneath you, your head hanging off the edge while your legs are raised up, your limbs fitted perfectly into the shape of the bench-like thing. As you look up, you realize there's a large mirror right above you, and you meet your own frightened gaze, eyes wide, pupils dilated, a strange gloss in them that could either be tears or something else entirely. While your legs are spread (and tied at the ankles by a pair of unknown women) and your arms are arranged in a T-pose (with your wrists being tied down as well), the rest of your body is secured by a large leather strap spanning over your stomach.

You struggle slightly, testing your restraints, but nothing budges. Though instead of fueling the panic settling in your belly, you feel weirdly relaxed, soothed by the way you cannot move, knowing you can't escape. And in the back of your cloudy mind you also know: you don't want to anyway. Your gaze wanders to the tall woman standing next to you, smiling down, a camera in her hands.

“You're doing great,” she says softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “My good girl.” Her praise burns through the uneasiness, silences the distress to some extent. Her hand moves around your head, lifting it slightly as her eyes move away from you to something you can't see from your position. And you don't have to, you can feel it.

It's a gag, and as soon as it comes into your view, you feel your heart accelerating. There are two dildos attached to it, one pointing inwards and the other pointing outwards, and the mere idea of having that thing in your mouth and down your throat makes you tense up badly. A whine escapes you before a sigh sounds from beside you. Mistress puts her camera down and steps closer, taking the gag from whoever wanted to shove it into you. She meets your eyes, and even though she's upside down, you calm a little when you look at her.

“You can do this, pet,” she says as she moves the tip of one dildo against your lips. “You've done this before. Many times. You like having things down your throat, remember?”

Her words sink into your muddy mind, burning through the doubts, and even though it feels like an impossible thing to do, you part your lips and allow the object into your mouth. She smiles at you, slowly pushing the silicone toy deeper, it teases the back of your throat, and to your own surprise slips right past your gag reflex, stretching your throat, bulging your neck, sitting tight against the collar. You stare up at her, tears burning in your eyes as she fastens the leather strap around your head, keeping the gag in place.

“Good girl,” she coos, caressing your warm cheeks. “You didn't even gag. I'm so proud of you.”

A weird warmth settles in your stomach, as you watch her, the other dildo attached to the gag slightly obscuring your view. Its sight should disturb you, knowing what it is for, but you're eerily calm, focused on breathing through your nose as the object in your throat just sits there, pressing on your tongue, with saliva already dripping past your lips (the wide leather band of the gag sits loosely against your mouth, allowing you to part your lips and let it drip), and you know you'd only make it worse if you panicked now.

And somehow the image of her riding your face like this gives you a strange kind of comfort, definitely distracting you enough to ignore whatever happens around you. Subdued voices echo through the room, it's eerily quiet, apart from the continuous moans and whines coming from the TVs, sounds you made before, apparently, and you realize you won't be able to make them tonight. Closing your eyes for a moment, letting the tears press past your lashes, you focus on them, trying to imagine (remember) the scenarios that caused you to sound like this.

You've only seen the pictures, you have no memories of doing any of those things, so you can only assume what it must feel like to be stuffed and used like this. Your body, however, seems to remember it just fine. Arousal pools in your core, drenching your thong, perking up your nipples that strain against the fabric of your bra and top, while goosebumps ripple over your bare arms.

There's more shuffling around you, but you don't want to open your eyes. You can't. It doesn't feel real if you keep them closed, not as intimidating, and it's easier to handle, or so you tell yourself. It's actually strange just how calm you are, strapped to this weird table/bench with your arms and legs spread and tied to individual parts of it, allowing people to stand between them and right next to you, and you can feel them, their warmth and presence, anticipation in the air. Your heart beats faster.

Suddenly you flinch, eyes flying open, a muffled groan escaping you that almost makes you gag around the dildo in your throat, as you feel hands stroking along your arms, in an almost sensual way, synchronized left and right, and the touches end when they shove an object into each hand. You don't dare to turn your head so you look up at the mirrored ceiling, and you realize they've put a pair of thick black dildos into your hands. With how your wrists are tied, you cannot move them, only open and close your fingers around the toys.

You frown slightly, and your confusion is answered when Mistress' velvety voice echoes through the room. “Ladies, some of you are in for a surprise tonight. There are numbers on the base of your selected toys, and if these range from 1 to 5, you are invited to have a special seat on our special Toy. Yes, only the ladies, sorry gentlemen, you can still watch, and if you grabbed one of the special toys, I ask you to give it to a woman of your choice, if they're willing, of course. This is a night of sinful sensations, but consent is of utmost importance.”

Her words sit heavy in your stomach, and you wonder if you really consented to this as well. You can't remember. But then again, there's nothing you can do about it now.

She continues, her voice louder as chatter and shuffling fill the room. “Ladies, if you like, come closer and assume your positions. Dim the lights, please.”

Around you the bright lights turn down, but there are still two spots directed right at the center, illuminating your body and enough of your limbs, but when a bunch of women approach the table, you can barely see their faces. They are guided to your hands and feet, and while the dildos in your clammy hands make sense, you wonder what's the special seat by your feet, until you realize they're probably supposed to sit on the pointy tips of your high heels.

A strange heat crashes through you. It's one thing to imagine Mistress using you, but complete strangers, getting off by humping your shoes of all things and riding the toys you're holding for them? But then nothing seems to surprise you anymore after walking into a gallery filled with pictures of your body, where a willing audience waits for a night of debauchery (and willing and eager they seem with how packed the place is). You're still glad when you see a familiar face looking down at you (upside down again) as Mistress approaches your head.

She caresses your cheeks and wipes a bit of drool off your chin as she smiles down at you. Her hand then moves to the dildo attached to your gag, and the sudden touch moves the one in your throat, pushing it a little deeper. Tears burn under your lashes, but you force yourself to remain calm, breathe through your nose, ignore the obstructing object stuck in your mouth. You see her gliding her fist over the phallic toy, the motion somewhat soothing as you focus on it.

“My dear guests, you came here for a special adventure,” her voice fills the quiet room as she starts talking to the people gathered around the table. You keep your eyes on her as she speaks. “This is art, my friends. Art found in devotion, in submission, in using a canvas of flesh and bones, using it, expanding it, stretching the limits of what's possible, of what's right, of what's conventional. I invite you to explore your own limits tonight, find pleasure in using this devoted pet of mine.”

You blink slowly, mesmerized by her words, but they still poke at the buried confusion and doubts in your mind. That little voice of protest, though, is quickly squashed again by the overwhelming cotton filling your head, a strange sort of excitement mixed with fear and uncertainty, held together by a warm feeling like a caress, a praising word, a soft smile, a gentle touch. It's enough to ignore the meaning behind her words, as straight-forward as they may be.

“You may use her in any way you want, within the confines of the scene. Use your toys, arrange her however you like – ask for assistance if necessary, this table can be moved, allowing you access to both of her holes. After the first round, we will turn her around, so make use of her perky little breasts while you can. Oh, and if you'd like to cut off her clothes, my assistants will provide you with the necessary tools. But enough instructions. I invite you to enjoy yourself. This is art, my friends,” she repeats, her voice rising. “Use it!”

The air changes around you, allowing those doubts to come back after all. More tears gather in your eyes. You feel strangely heavy, pushed into the soft cushions, your restraints cutting into your skin, the dildo in your throat pressing against your airways, making it even harder to breathe. Panic settles hot in your stomach, while cold sweat covers your skin. And no matter how woozy and dizzy you feel, you can't completely ignore the fear crashing through you. But it's not only fear, it's bated anticipation. What will happen next? What will these people do to you?

Of course the pictures and videos all around you give you enough hints, but you felt weirdly disconnected from those. This, however, is real. The gloved hands touching your body are real, the dildos between your fingers are real, the warmth of people standing close but in the shadows is real. Hushed voices fill the room, so many strangers, and you can only hear them, see their hands and the objects they chose in the reflection above you (and some of them make you really anxious).

You want to swallow, but you can't, your saliva running mercilessly past your lips and over your cheeks, and with how your head is angled back, it gathers warm and hot in the shell of your ears and in your hairline. Your fingers twitch around the hard silicone in your grasp, your hips jerking slightly when you feel hands rubbing along your inner thighs.

You know you should be freaking out, but again, you can't. You are so calm it scares you, only letting your body react to what's happening, while your mind has become silent, shut up by whatever is swirling through your system, numbed by whatever was in your water. You blink slowly, focusing your eyes on the dildo protruding from the gag, wondering what it will be like to have someone ride this thing when it's attached to your face like that.

You don't seem to have to wait long when someone steps up to your head, but before you can take a closer look, you feel something soft being put over your eyes, taking another sense from you, a blindfold, and you'd sigh if you could, both slightly relieved you don't have to look up a stranger's crotch as they ride you, but also weirdly disappointed that you cannot look up a stranger's crotch as they ride you. With the room plunged into darkness, all you can do now is listen, listen and feel.

For now they all just seem to explore your body, hands sliding along your sides, up and down your legs, over your clothed chest, some are tickling you, or trying to, as you find yourself unable to react to those teases in your armpits or against your ribs. You're glad you're too far gone to care, because you just know it'd be torture otherwise.

It's almost relaxing, in a way, to be stroked like that, caressed and touched, but as it happens all over your body, all at once, you find yourself quickly overwhelmed by it too. Not being able to see who touches you and where makes it all the more intense. Breathing harder through your nose, your throat working around the dildo stuck in it, you try to focus on the steady beat of your heart, slightly erratic, but not as panicked as it should be.

It almost lulls you for a moment, drowning out the hushed voices around you, the noises of past-you being stuffed full and moaning about it, but when you feel something cold dragging between your breasts, you flinch nonetheless, this time straining your neck, triggering your gag reflex. Your body jerks, your throat clenching around the toy, spit and bile shooting up your esophagus, filling your already filled mouth. You gag again, and panic crashes through you as you can't seem to get rid of all that saliva.

Luckily you feel a pair of hands on your head, turning it so it can drip past your trembling lips, easing the pressure in your throat. Tears burn in your eyes, soaked up by the blindfold. Something like a wet cloth wipes over your cheek, and you relax slowly.

“Easy, pet, everything's alright,” you hear Mistress' soft voice close to you, calming you instantly. “You're doing great. No need to panic.” Her hand moves along your neck, teasing the collar, pressing slightly onto the object in your throat. “Just breathe, it's fine... you can do this. Like you always did, okay? You love this, remember?”

You don't, but you feel too dizzy to fight that sentiment. Your head feels lighter, breathing works, but it's a struggle nonetheless. It helps to be praised and reassured, though, and you focus on the fact that Mistress is right there, looking out for you, making sure you're doing okay. It's a warming sensation in your belly – that almost distracts you from the colder sensation of something gliding under your top and bra.

It feels like metal, and when you hear a quiet snip-snap sound, you know it's a pair of scissors, cutting away your clothes to expose you to your surroundings. As if being strapped to a table and wearing a dildo gag isn't humiliating enough, you realize you are now naked in front of a bunch of strangers whose hands don't miss a beat before they grope at your freed breasts, squeezing and kneading, palms pressing down, fingers pinching your nipples until they hurt.

You let out a muffled whine, squirming against the onslaught of touches, but they keep going, pulling and poking, the squeaky surface of their latex gloves rubbing harshly against your skin. As they do, the scissors move lower, and the same snip-snap sound comes to your ears when your panties fall away. At least they leave your garter belt and stockings, giving you the illusion of still wearing something. But now your cunt is out in the open, and the first hands seem very eager to explore it properly.

Suddenly the table beneath you moves, and you feel your blood shooting into your head as your hips are being lifted while your head is lowered even more. Vertigo grabs you, sending shivers down your limbs, increasing the head spinning and stomach clenching. In this new position, your rear hangs off the edge of the cushion, allowing the bystanders to grab your ass and grope more of your soft flesh. Most of them do, but some go straight to the exposed base of the butt plug, pulling and poking it mercilessly.

You keep squirming, the strap around your stomach holding you down but not enough, allowing you to circle your hips in a grinding motion that seems to entertain the people around you. While the voices have been hushed before, you can now hear snippets of what they're saying – and you somehow wished you wouldn't.

“Look at her, so eager.”

“Can't wait to be stuffed, huh, little slut?”

“Wonder how many she can take. Did they say there was a limit?”

Your breathing quickens, rapid puffs through your nose, chest rising and falling faster against all the hands gripping at you. Your stomach flutters against the tight leather strap, your thighs trembling slightly, toes curling in your shoes. Between all the comments, laughter and other noises, you suddenly hear the faint clicking of a camera, and you just know that Mistress is in the midst of producing a new line of degrading pictures of you.

Somehow, you couldn't care less about that. Being exposed to a room full of strangers, groped and touched and poked at, feels much worse than having aesthetically pleasing pictures taken of your body, though to have lasting evidence of this experience isn't too nice either. But there's nothing you can do anyway, so you focus back on trying to get enough oxygen into your burning lungs, trying to fight the vertigo making your head swirl, just trying to live through it all.

While your nipples are being pinched, your boobs pulled into two different directions, sending sparks down your body, you feel a gloved hand on your throbbing clit, poking and prodding, giving enough pressure to make your thighs twitch, but not enough to ease the tension in your lower stomach. You try to move your hips, find at least a bit of relief, but instead of allowing you the motion, you feel a stinging slap on your mound, then three more in rapid succession, causing you to gasp and ultimately gag around the dildo in your throat as various pains crash through your body, making it jolt against your restraints.

Your head is being supported again, turned to the side to allow the spit to drain from your mouth, as you hear a low voice above you. “Gentlemen, if I may remind you, impact play is not on the agenda until round three. Please be patient.”

You hear hushed voices in response, shuffling noises growing louder before they disappear. You vehemently ignore her mentioning something about 'round three'. A new hand comes to your cunt, much gentler, a soft stroking rhythm of gloved fingers that ease your rapidly beating heart. You relax again, leaning into the hands holding your head before they leave you too. You hear the shutter of the camera again, much closer, while the hand on your center starts parting your labia, slowly rubbing up and down, and you can't help the muffled moans slipping past your gag.

Your hips undulate against the stroking fingers, and this time, they allow it, leaning into it, letting you decide how you want to be touched, at least to an extent. Your hands claw at the dildos you're supposed to hold, the special seats that have yet to be claimed, as you feel your stomach tensing up, the friction of the fingers against your clit the relief you have been looking for all night.

They move with you now, slipping between your slick, poking at the sensitive bud, and you feel your heart accelerating, your breath stuck in your throat, your muscles tightening, your back arching against the leather strap, you're so close, so close, and you almost expect to be left hanging again as it drags on and on, but then... finally... the fingers pinch your clit so hard you can't even handle all of your body's reactions.

First you inhale sharply, on the verge of screaming, tilting your neck in a way that makes you gag, and as your stomach jerks, your hips buck up, your legs kicking in their restraints, toes curling painfully, your muscles contract, clenching hard around nothing and around the plug in your butt, and you come, violently at first, convulsing uncontrollably, before you're swept away by a wave of pleasure that crashes through your body gently, a reverberating tingling from the top of your head all the way down to your cramping toes.

“Well done,” coos a voice in your ear, a hand stroking your sweat-slick face. “And congratulations to the lady who was the first to make her come. If you like her to return the favor, you may choose a special seat now.”

Your breaths are still labored through your nose, but barely any oxygen seems to make it into your lungs with how the gag sits in your throat and how your heartbeat throbs in your jugular, right against the collar, further tightening your neck. Your head is really spinning now, as does the room, seemingly. You're almost glad you're bound the way you are.

But despite the warming feeling of your orgasm, there's something cold sitting deep in your guts. Did you even have permission to come? You can't remember Mistress mentioning anything like that. But then again, she did just praise you for it, didn't she? It's a strange fear that overcomes you, it doesn't really make sense, it's just a feeling, a distant memory of... pain? Of disappointment and shame? Whatever it is, it makes you furrow your brows under the blindfold as new tears seep into the fabric.

Suddenly you feel a pair of hands on your head, someone unfastens the blindfold, and as soon as it's gone, you blink helplessly into the light projected at you. Another light flashes next to you, and you realize you've been photographed. The thought makes it all worse, causing you to really start crying now. A vulnerable moment like this, forever captured and burned onto whatever medium she is using tonight.

You sniffle pathetically, and as you do, you realize that your nose starts stuffing up. Your eyes widen, your breaths hectic as panic grips your limbs. Not good. You look around, trying to find Mistress, but she's moved on to stand by your side focused on the fluttering of your stomach and the way your cunt glistens, her camera clicking away furiously. You see shadows all around you, and white-gloved hands reaching for you, still groping your soft flesh wherever they can.

You try to speak through your gag, but not even the muffled noises you create are loud enough to get through the hushed chatter around you. You struggle on the table, trying to get anyone's attention, while you get dizzier and dizzier, less and less oxygen making it through your nose. Your last resort is to make yourself gag, hoping that someone would notice and help you in your predicament.

Lightheaded as you are, you turn your head, try to strain your neck, force the dildo deeper into your constricted throat, but your muscles seem too lax to react, your gag reflex silenced like the rest of your body. You can barely move, you feel so weak.

Something moves against your twitching fingers, something warm and solid and slightly wet, and you see the shape of someone straddling your bound wrist, skin and soft fabric brushing your cold hand that's tight around the base of the dildo you're supposed to hold. You try to move it, but whoever assumes their special seat right now is more focused on their own enjoyment than your growing distress.

Tears burn in your eyes, saliva coats your cold skin, you feel heavy. The noises around you grow quieter until everything is just gone. No more lights, no more hands, no more lewd sounds echoing through the room. Just darkness. And no air.

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End notes: So, uh, sorry? I don't know where this vision came from. My mind is deep and dirty, as you know. I hope the night of sinful sensations, tantalizing touches, unknown urges and frivolous fun (aka STUF²... I feel so clever XD) didn't traumatize you too much, because, uh, the next chapter may be even worse. And don't worry, we're getting to the wlw smut soon enough, I promise! (Oh, and Reader is fine, of course!)

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Saturday!

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

[velvetbeeez]

𝑌o𝑢r𝑠 𝑒t𝑒r𝑛a𝑙l𝑦… 𝓥𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖉𝖗 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔

Born to mourn, to dream...but to never sleep

౨ৎ . . .

In the midst of a harsh cold thunderstorm on a moonless night there echoed a cry of a babe, a princess. her first cry was a prophecy, bitter as truth and sharp as a firefly's light. The astrologers folded their charts in silence. Her fate, written in bone and sand, could not be rewritten.

They raised her in silk, mahogany, gold & silence…Her eyes learnt to read men’s smile before she could learn to write. By five, she walks around the castle, tracing her footsteps so she never gets lost, by ten she falls into a monotonous pattern of life, by 13, she weeps like a widow. Lost in a loop.

Her father, the king, with firm words set in stone, and laws thrown like worn out clothes, promises her to the son of a noble, a rich young man, loud- voiced, drunk on his own shadow, pride as swollen as the sun. The match was sacred, sealed by wax, turmeric and trembling hands of mothers…

Despite that, In the hollow of her heart, something rings, and chimes. She was made for more…

As the monsoon calls for the yearly festival of seven days, It brings the scent of wet earth, of rebirth, of things buried long ago rising in the night. But this year, the sky carries more than rain. It carries something heavy, humming low in her marrow. Hope. Something so forbidden, so out of touch for her. Dreams, in which she hears an unknown yet familiar voice, sees a hazy, inviting face… nightmares she calls them. The seven day festival begins, and with it, the gates of the city swings open like a wound. Boats drift in from distant lands. The air is brought to life with music, spice, and foreign tongues. Her father’s castle is brimming with guests from across the lands and seas. That is when she sees him.

Pale as twilight, with eyes like flaming emeralds, too alive, too cold. He calls himself Edmund from Greece, but she knows lies when she hears them. Something changes when his eyes land on her. It feels like he has forever been there, watching her from the shadows…

He speaks to her first beneath the silks of the spice pavilion. His voice is too even, too knowing. She replies with clipped words and sharpened stares, but his smile lingers like a wound that refuses to bleed. He plays the game with an elegance that infuriates her, his subtle flirtations, the ways he twists her own words to fluster her, the way he tilts his head when she pretends not to see him, the lazy grace with which he spars words as though born to it.

She despises him because he makes her forget the chains she had learnt to wear on her wrists like bangles. She despises him because he makes her stumble, stutter and lose the stillness in herself that she had mastered for years.

A day or two later, a duel takes place in the silence and privacy of the secluded weapons’ room. Clashes of swords ring in the castle…an attempt to push him away. But his cold sharp sword lands on curve on her neck, a kiss of ice.

She tries to forget but forgetfulness is not a luxury cursed daughters can afford.

The days pass slowly, painfully, with burning of hearts and stolen glances.

Then, on the seventh evening, the stars were dimmer. The winds were sharper, the whispers were louder. The world turns.

Her fiance, bloated with drink and bruised pride, finds her alone in the moonlit balcony. Words turn to fists. Her voice breaks. Her wrist bleed against the golden railings. And then, snap, something inside her shatters like a mirror. A knife. a scream. Silence haunts.

She runs. Wherever her steps take her. Past the festival fires, past the textile stalls, the spice lingering in the air, the music, the ghost of her past self.

The river waits for her, endless, blue, cold and deep. It calls to her. She wades in…or tries to.

And he is there. Edmund. He holds her. Promises an eternity, freedom, and his devotion. Offers her his world. His icy, dead heart.

She should recoil, turn back, run to her father’s palace, fall at his feet, sob and beg for forgiveness. But she does not. That life is not for her. She carries the weight of stars beneath her ribs.

So, under the weeping clouds, he sinks his canines into her slender naked neck. Gently. Like a prayer. Sealing a pact written before the dawn of time.

They vanish into the midnight. Travelling along with the stars.

The people searched for their princess for long, some say she drowned in the river, some say she lives like a commoner in some hut. Some say she was a witch who burned in her own sins.

But she travels the world with her immortal lover. Castles in Transylvania, markets in Tokyo, pyramids in Egypt, crowns in England. It is all theirs.

No one knows about them. No one wants to. Some creatures are meant to be unknown, to never be found, to bask forever in their own sacredness.